beauxland

je ne sais quoi

[kafk-a]

Ross Gay, from “Joy Is Such a Human Madness” 

[leahberman]

winterfresh

[quotespile]

Beauty is rarely soft or consolatory. Quite the contrary. Genuine beauty is always quite alarming.

Donna Tartt, The Secret History (via quotespile)

[kevinruss]

Crystal, Colorado (Taken with Instagram at Crystal, CO)

[potatounit]

[kafk-a]

bluets, maggie nelson

[jazbaaati]

“Outside the trees dragged their leaves like nets through the depths of the air; the sound of water was in the room, and through the waves came the voices of birds singing.”

Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Clarice Lispector, from “The Stream of Life,” originally published c. 1973

[peoniepoetals]

Forgiveness is not, it should not be, normal, normative, normalising. It should remain exceptional and extraordinary, in the face of the impossible: as if interrupted the ordinary course of historical temporality.

Jacques Derrida, in “On Forgiveness,” from On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness (via peoniepoetals)

[beauxland]

The Real Work

It may be that when we no longer know what to do we have come to our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to go we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.

--Wendell Berry

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

The sea is full of teeth, full of music,

Muriel Rukeyser, from The Collected Poems; “The Cruise,” wr. c. 1968 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

We experience life as a continuity, and only after it falls away, after it becomes the past, do we see its discontinuities. The past, if there is such a thing, is mostly empty space, great expanses of nothing, in which significant persons and events float.

Teju Cole, from Open City (Random House, 2011)

[mythologyofblue]

Is there any greater mystery than the separateness of each person?

Laura van den Berg, Find Me (via mythologyofblue)

[beauxland]

[mythologyofblue]

“Beneath memory and experience, beneath imagination and invention, beneath words, there are rhythms to which memory and imagination and words all move. The writer’s job is to go down deep enough to feel that rhythm, find it, move to it, be moved by it, and let it move memory and imagination to find words.”

Ursula K. Le Guin, from her talk at Portland Arts & Lectures (2000) and found in the book, Ursula K. Le Guin: Conversations on Writing with David Naimon (via mythologyofblue)

[nemophilies-deactivated20190428]

Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or what follows after. Thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of fourteen on a line in a gale of wind.

Virginia Woolf, Orlando (via nemophilies)

[wanderthewood]

Oregon cabin by logan_b_wright