"I NEED SOLITUDE FOR MY WRITING. NOT LIKE A HERMIT- THAT WOULDN'T BE ENOUGH- BUT LIKE A DEAD MAN." -KAFKA


clannyphantom:

*takes gulp of vodka straight from the bottle* my day was fine

fuckyeahconormullenoberst:

I believe that lovers should be chained together

fuckyeahconormullenoberst:

I believe that lovers should be chained together

Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other.
—Richard Siken, from Detail Of The Fire (via violentwavesofemotion)

(Source: remuspumpkinly)

friday afternoon. i am stupidly excited for the wintertime. 
"I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern——

My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.”
–Sylvia Plath, Fever 103

friday afternoon. i am stupidly excited for the wintertime. 

"I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern——
My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.”
–Sylvia Plath, Fever 103

Vincent van Gogh (March 30, 1853 – July 29, 1890)

I haven’t got it yet, but I’m hunting it and fighting for it, I want something serious, something fresh—something with soul in it! Onward, onward.

(Source: unhistorical)

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.

(the one instance in which the sight of my profile doesn’t make me physically ill.)

"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;They called me the hyacinth girl.” –Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neitherLiving nor dead, and I knew nothing,Looking into the heart of light, the silence.”
T.S. Eliot

(the one instance in which the sight of my profile doesn’t make me physically ill.)

"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
They called me the hyacinth girl.”
–Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.”

T.S. Eliot

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
Eudoxus did not quite anticipate you, a curve that skims but
will not touch the bottom line.
Heather Green's poem "I Was Reading Up on My Hellenic Math," in this week’s issue. (via newyorker)
'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)