October 17, 2011
"My reaction was a lot like what we feel from attempts to paint unreality in a pleasant way."

— Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

October 17, 2011
"This luminosity does not negate reason or any rational sense. It simply exists. I am not ‘right,’ rather I had an internal experience, a state of awareness. A kind of poetic sensibility open to the world, to everything—grand and small."

— Anna Kamienska, from The Notebook: 1965-72 in Astonishments, trans. Curzon and Drabik (via proustitute)

October 16, 2011
"Carried by light,
images remain

while sensation
is so evanescent

as to be always beyond

— Rae Armantrout, from “Outer”

October 15, 2011
"And even sadness was the privilege of the rich, of those who could afford it, of those who had nothing better to do. Sadness was a luxury."

— Clarice Lispector, The Hour of the Star

October 9, 2011
"I like it when they walk holding hands
old or young
and you don’t know or need to know
who is leading"

— Julia Hartwig, from “Give Me Your Hand, Darling…”

September 30, 2011
"Memory has its own screen across the room to view itself, and the continuous dwelling of conjecture takes permanent form in stiff-legged walks to remind, thus on and on the breathing goes."

— Joanne Kyger, from “The Test of Fantasy” (via the-final-sentence)

(via proustitute)

September 29, 2011
"I am indefectibly myself, and it is in this that I am mad: I am mad because I consist."

— Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, trans. Richard Howard (via proustitute)

September 29, 2011
"Passion, and passion in its profoundest, is not a thing demanding a palatial stage whereon to play its part. Down among the groundlings, among the beggars and rakers of garbage, profound passion is enacted."

— Herman Melville, Billy Budd: Sailor

September 26, 2011
"Do we ever ‘read’ the same book twice? Do we ‘read’ the same book others read?"

— Joyce Carol Oates, The Journal of Joyce Carol Oates: 1973-1982

September 25, 2011

Postcard sent from Virginia Woolf to George Bernard Shaw, 1940 (via)


Postcard sent from Virginia Woolf to George Bernard Shaw, 1940 (via)

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