January 2012
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December 2011
9 posts
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Le commencement et le déclin de l’amour se font sentir par l’embarras où l’on est de se trouver seuls. The beginning and the end of love are both marked by embarrassment when the two find themselves alone. — La Bruyère—Les Caractères. IV
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The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon. — John Greenleaf Whittier (Snow-Bound)
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When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow— It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They...
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Scotty Trails Madeline by Bernard Hermann...
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free. — Sylvia Plath (The Bell Jar)
November 2011
8 posts
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A few times in my life I’ve had moments of absolute clarity, when for a few brief seconds the silence drowns out the noise and I can feel rather than think, and things seem so sharp and the world seems so fresh. I can never make these moments last. I cling to them, but like everything, they fade. I have lived my life on these moments. They pull me back to the present, and I realize that...
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iferalchild asked: Virginia Woolf's note to her husband has to be the saddest most beautiful love note ever. I'll have to reblog it. Thank you for sharing!
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In your arms was still delight, Quiet as a street at night; And thoughts of you, I do remember, Were green leaves in a darkened chamber, Were dark clouds in a moonless sky.
— Rupert Brooke (Retrospect)
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October 2011
1 post
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August 2011
20 posts
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Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could...
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Perfidia by Xavier Cugat
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Sex is kicking death in the ass while singing.
— Charles Bukowski
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I’ve never been lonely. I’ve been in a room — I’ve felt suicidal. I’ve been depressed. I’ve felt awful — awful beyond all — but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me…or that any number of people could enter that room. In other words, loneliness is something I’ve never been bothered with...
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anything is a waste of time unless you are fucking well or creating well or getting well or looming toward a kind of phantom love-happiness. we will all end up in the crud-pot of defeat (…) — Charles Bukowski (extract from Another Horse Story)
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Suicides? Heart attacks? The papers didn’t seem interested. The world was full of ways to die, too many to cover. Newsworthy deaths had to be exceptional. Most people go unobserved. — Haruki Murakami (Dance, Dance, Dance)
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I don’t trust or love anyone. Because people are so creepy. Creepy creepy creeps. Creeping around. Creeping here and creeping there. Creeping everywhere. Crippity crappity creepies.
— Vincent Gallo
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He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the independent air of an American—a combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange flowers in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy him his inches. — Louisa May...
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He would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was—a woman. — Washington Irving (The Legend of Sleepy Hollow)
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’T is just like a summer bird-cage in a garden,—the birds that are without despair to get in, and the birds that are within despair and are in a consumption for fear they shall never get out.
— John Webster (The White Devil)
June 2011
17 posts
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Sandpaper Kisses by Martina Topley-Bird (Quixotic)
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How very lovable her face was to him. Yet there was nothing ethereal about it; all was real vitality, real warmth, real incarnation. And it was in her mouth that this culminated. Eyes almost as deep and speaking he had seen before, and cheeks perhaps as fair; brows as arched, a chin and throat almost as shapely; her mouth he had seen nothing to equal on the face of the earth. To a young man with...
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“‘Let Astris wander away to the mountains, to bewail her son Deriades a slave in heavy chains: let her go, if she likes, to settle in Celtic land, that she also may turn into a tree with the Heliades, Daughters of the Sun, and weep often in floods of sorrowful tears.’” — Nonnos, Dionysiaca
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The Two Mysteries
We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still; The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and still; The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call; The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all. We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain; This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again; We know not to what other sphere the...
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Give me a spirit that on this life’s rough sea Loves t’ have his sails fill’d with a lusty wind, Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack, And his rapt ship run on her side so low That she drinks water, and her keel plo
- George Chapman (The Conspiracy and Tragedy of Charles, Duke of Byron)
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Levater by Yael Naïm (Yael Naïm)