‘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)