June 2012
“‘The proper stuff of fiction’ does not exist; everything is the proper stuff of...”
– Virginia Woolf, Modern Fiction, 1925.
(via lolcait)
“‘Do you want to live?’ inquired Mary.
‘No,’ he answered, in a cross, tired...”
– Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden (via mirroir)
“In water, like in books—you can leave your life.”
– Lidia Yuknavitch, The Chronology of Water (via mirroir)
“That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth, and you can hear...”
– Andrea Gibson, Yarn (via youngfolksociety)
seaside limbs: heartache, adj: pulsating gently in... →
danseurs:
heartache, adj: pulsating gently in your veins, lost and nostalgic of wrung out sorrows, undulating waves, a dull murmur beneath your solar plexus. Dumb and dreamy and a sweet tangerine tang, the kind that laces around your tongue; the pale fingerprint of a faded memory, torn and tethered, blurry around the edges. A lump in the throat, swallowed thoughts, quivering silences. A pile...
“I don’t know if you’ve ever felt like that. That you wanted to sleep for a...”
– The Perks of Being A Wallflower. (via hollowstimulation)
Sharing Poetry: Emily Dickinson, "Because I could... →
sharingpoetry:
Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove At recess, in the ring; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us; The...
“Such silence has an actual sound, the sound of disappearance.”
– Suzanne Finnamore (via handcraftedinvirginia)
“I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees,...”
– Sylvia Plath (via larmoyante)
“I believed that I wanted to be a poet, but deep down I just wanted to be a poem.”
— Jaime Gil de Biedma
Always an instant reblog
“The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went.”
– Orlando, Virginia Woolf (via fromliterature)
“The grief is quarantined.
The sky is blue.”
– Wisława Szymborska, from “Seen from Above” in View with a Grain of Sand, trans. Clare Cavanagh (via proustitute) 