fuck you, pants
1 week ago - 
2
2 He will forget me. He will leave my letters lying about among guns and dogs unanswered. I shall send him poems and he will perhaps reply with a picture post card. But it is for that that I love him. I shall propose meeting - under a clock, by some Cross; and shall wait, and he will not come. It is for that that I love him. Oblivious, almost entirely ignorant, he will pass from my life. And I shall pass, incredible as it seems, into other lives; this is only an escapade perhaps, a prelude only.
Virginia Woolf, The Waves. (via thisideaofsurrender)
(via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
In the books I’ve written about my childhood I can’t remember, suddenly, what I left out, what I said. I think I wrote about our love for our mother, but I don’t know if I wrote about how we hated her too, or about our love for one another, and our terrible hatred too, in that common family history of ruin and death which was ours whatever happened, in love or in hate, and which I still can’t understand however hard I try, which is still beyond my reach, hidden in the very depths of my flesh, blind as a newborn child. It’s the area on whose brink silence begins. What happens here is silence, the slow travail of my whole life. I’m still there, watching those possessed children, as far away from the mystery now as I was then. I’ve never written, though I thought I wrote, never loved, though I thought I loved, never done anything but wait outside the closed door.
Marguerite Duras, The Lover (translated by Barbara Bray)
(Source: awritersruminations)
(via jessiiiicaaaa)
2 weeks ago - 4
4
(via jessiiiicaaaa)
What song, what home,
what calm or what clarity
can I not quite come to,
never quite see:
this field, this sky, this tree.
Christian Wiman, from “Hard Night” (via proustitute)
Went and looked at the stars, but could not get quite the right sense of amazement, the thrill of emotion (I can get this really well at times) because L said: “Now come in. It’s too cold to be out.
Virginia Woolf, Diary Entry, 5 September, 1926.
(Source: fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
He felt an extraordinary relief,wanting nothing so much as to be alone. But then these astonishing accesses of emotion - bursting into tears this morning,what was all that about?
Virginia Woolf,Mrs Dalloway. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.
Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
(via awritersruminations)
An anonymous author’s novel written on the walls of an abandoned house in Chongqing, China
(via awritersruminations)
It is the phenomenon somethings called “alienation from self.” In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the specter of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that answering it becomes out of the question. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves - there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.
Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem (via dialogues)
(via siranai)
(via siranai)
(Source: sariellesays)
3 weeks ago - 3
3
Santiago Rusiñol i Prats, Erik Satie, 1890 (via deadsunflower; art-mirrors-art)
