*takes gulp of vodka straight from the bottle* my day was fine
I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and to be utterly empty.
—Sylvia Plath, Tulips
I don’t love you, I’m just passing the time.
You could love me if I knew how to lie.
What was it about him that had made the seventeen-year-old me fall so hard? Try as I might, I couldn’t remember. Life is strange, isn’t it? You can be totally entranced by something one minute, be willing to sacrifice everything to make it yours, but then a little time passes, or your perspective changes a bit, and all of a sudden you’re shocked at how its glow has faded.
—Haruki Murakami, Scheherazade (in this week’s issue of the newyorker)
I keep my countenance,
I remain self-possessed
Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired
Reiterates some worn out common song
With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
Recalling things that other people have desired.
—T.S. Eliot, Portrait of a Lady
'I exist.' In thousands of agonies — I exist. I'm tormented on the rack — but I exist! Though I sit alone in a pillar — I exist! I see the sun, and if I don't see the sun, I know it's there. And there's a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there.
—Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (via dollymyfolly)
all rot, no poetry.
I will always be haunted by thoughts of a sun-drenched elsewhere.
—Isabelle Eberhardt, The Nomad: The Diaries of Isabelle Eberhardt (via mythologyofblue)