January 2011
237 posts
Le sentier à l’âme: Robert M. Pirsig →
“Mountains should be climbed with as little effort as possible and without desire. The reality of your own nature should determine the speed. If you become restless, speed up. If you become winded, slow down. You climb the mountain in an equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion. Then, when you’re no longer thinking ahead, each footstep isn’t just a means to an end but a unique event in...
She said it out loud, the words distributed into a room that was full of cold air and books. Books everywhere! Each wall was armed with overcrowded yet immaculate shelving. It was barely possible to see paintwork. There were all different styles and sizes of lettering on the spines of the black, the red, the gray, the every-colored books. It was one of the most beautiful things Liesel Meminger had...
“Let me begin by telling you that I was in love. An ordinary statement, to be...”
– Truman Capote Other Voices, Other Rooms
Makin Out’ Pomplamoose
He sighed profoundly, and flung himself - there was a passion in his movements which deserves the word - on the earth at the foot of the oak tree. He loved, beneath all this summer transiency, to feel the earth’s spine beneath him; for such he took the hard root of the oak tree to be; for image followed image, it was the back of a great horse that he was riding; or the deck of a tumbling...
“He seeks life where it is to be found: in all that is most delicate, in the...”
– Hugo von Hofmannsthal
“Your teeth are all paper your words are all written in them. Sometimes I wish to...”
“But we are alone, darling child, terribly, isolated each from the other; so...”
– Truman Capote
David Thomas: Isn’t unhappiness, to some degree, a matter of choice?
Morrissey: I think choice has a great deal to do with it. I can’t explain it more than that. It may be unconscious choice. I think it’s a result of somehow being traumatized along the way and you suddenly decide upon what’s best for you, i.e., staying away.
David Thomas: One of the impressions that...
“People say, ‘I’m going to sleep now,’ as if it were nothing. But it’s really a...”
– George Carlin
“I carried him softly through the broken street, with one salty eye and a heavy,...”
– The Book Thief, Markus Zusak
a shadow in the shape of wonder: seashells like... →
autumnfires:
We became something like lost seashells that had drifted to Antarctica. Our bones frosted over and the tips of our fingers grew a brilliant red from the cold. You missed the way your toes would curl forward into the sand and the way the waves combined and entwined along the length of your spine and along my murmuring mouth. How the scent danced in our lungs, pressed against our...
“I love all things, not because they are passionate or sweet-smelling, but...”
– Pablo Neruda (via clavicola)
like a lampshade on a ceiling and thinking it's...
oceansandmilk:
it’s awfully dark here, like i’m swimming in an inkwell. i asked if someone drowned the moon. no, no darling you’re the warm in my hands, you tie knots into the threads of me. hang on tight (you’re not the moon you’re not the moon) sink your whispers into the thoughts of me, i’ll carry you to bed.
violent femme: frozen plums →
likelava:
he was eating the darkest plum i’d ever seen. it kind of crunched like as if it had been frozen. reminded me of a poem i once read. he would do something like that. something like eat a pretty frozen dark plum. i asked him if he ever loved me and he said “close enough.” he looked happy, but not like he was trying to be. and maybe that’s okay. maybe that’s the way it was supposed to...
“I knew, you would do me good, in some way, at some time;- I saw it in your eyes...”
– Charlotte Brontë, excerpted from Jane Eyre
from The Crack-Up →
bunnymitford:
“Instead of being so sorry for yourself, listen — “she said. (She always says “Listen,” because she thinks while she talks — really thinks.) So she said: “Listen. Suppose this wasn’t a crack in you — suppose it was a crack in the Grand Canyon.”
“The crack’s in me,” I said heroically.
“Listen! The world only exists in your eyes — your conception of it. You can make it as big or...
“A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow.”
– Charlotte Brontë
lap up my tears with a puckered lip, boat them and let us drift, my dear
smotherthesun:
the jagged treeline pierces the air like your whisper upon my earlobes, your utterances prove more nourishing than the soft sweep of moonlight on each cheek. keep speaking of the sunrise, darling, warm my ears with these languid summer breaths. wipe the dust from the leaves and the frost from my eyes, your goldenrod anchor will thrust my toes upon your countryside
If I stole your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, aches, and your deaths, Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate. Excerpts from “the mother” by Gwendolyn Brooks
onlinejournals:
Writing poetry in the books of others, the scrawl looks the same as when you write notes on your wrist or palm, “JFSB 4:30”/”I was 19 before…”
It’s a cold day for such a warm walk, like Petrarch my opposites got mixed up in my mouth and I said, “I don’t like liking you like I do” which basically means, “Climb upon my back, it’s the steeple of a church house, I’ll carry you to...
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