[gnossienne]

Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body (1992)

[ghostlywriterr]

Michelangelo Buonarroti “The Creation of Adam” (details) (1511)  

[altruisticwriter]

-William Wordsworth

[typewriter-worries]

[ Text ID: Look at you comforting others / with the words you wish to hear ]

[llovelymoonn]

i will be forever alone

anna mendelssohn i'm working here \\ richard siken crush: "litany in which certain things are crossed out" \\ olivia laing the lonely city (via @virginiewoolf) \\ charles bukowski

kofi

[typewriter-worries]

505, Arctic Monkeys 

[ Text ID: I crumble completely when you cry ] 

[dark-academia-in-russia]

[somebodycallixii]

Love as Acceptance

Caitlyn Siehl // Leonard Cohen, "Anthem" // Rumi, "Bitterweet" // trans. Anne Carson, "Euripides" // Sade Andria Zabala, "Coffee and Cigarettes" // tumblr acct @/gayassnatural // Anne Carson, "H of H Playbook" // William Shakespeare, "Sonnet 116" // Clementine von Radics, "Mouthful of Forevers" // Toni Morrison, "Jazz"

[daught-er]

"You know, I have never trusted anyone as I trust you. In everything enchanted there's an element of trust."

"I could not write about this to anyone I did not love as I love you. It is all too private and secret."

Vladimir Nabokov's letter to Vera, 2 January 1924 (Prague) // Vita's letter to Virginia Woolf, 25 August 1939

[under-amethyst-moons]

"And more than anything I want for you to be happy, and it seems to me I could give you this happiness — sunny, simple — but not quite ordinary."

— Vladimir Nabokov, from Letters to Vera

[hedonistichabits]

“My sweetheart, my love, my love, my love—do you know what—all the happiness of the world, the riches, power and adventures, all the promises of religions, all the enchantment of nature and even human fame are not worth your two letters. It was a night of horror, terrible anguish, when I imagined that your undelivered letter, stuck at some unknown post office, was being destroyed like a sick little stray dog . . . But today it arrived—and now it seems to me that in the mailbox where it was lying, in the sack where it was shaking, all the other letters absorbed, just by touching it, your unique charm and that that day all Germans received strange wonderful letters—letters that had gone mad because they had touched your handwriting. The thought that you exist is so divinely blissful in itself that it is ridiculous to talk about the everyday sadness of separation—a week’s, ten days’—what does it matter? since my whole life belongs to you. I wake at night and know that you are together with me,—I sense your sweet long legs, your neck through your hair, your trembling eyelashes—and then such happiness, such simmering bliss follows me in my dreams that I simply suffocate . . .” ― Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Vera

[soracities]

a small lexicon of love, part 2 — Vladimir Nabokov to his wife Véra

[malojasnake]

— The Princess Bride, by William Goldman

— Letters to Vera, by Vladimir Nabokov

[ruler-of-neptune]

“I love you. Infinitely and inexpressibly. I’ve woken up in the middle of the night and here I am writing this. My love, my happiness.”

[lonelychambersofmyheart]

Excerpts from love letters that are close to my heart

1. Letters to Vera by Vladimir Nobokov//2 and 3. Letters to Milena by Franz Kafka//4. Emily Dickinson's letters to Susan Gilbert//5. John Keat's love letter to Fanny Brawne//6. Vita Sackville-West letters to Virginia Woolf

[metamorphesque]

― Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Vera         

[ text ID: The thought that you exist is so divinely blissful in itself that it is ridiculous to talk about the everyday sadness of separation—a week’s, ten days’—what does it matter? Since my whole life belongs to you. ]

[lyricalivvy]

Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Vera

[soircieres]

‘I’m so infinitely used to you that I now feel myself lost and empty: without you, my soul. You turn my life into something light, amazing, rainbowed – you put a glint of happiness on everything – always different: sometimes you can be smoky-pink, downy, sometimes dark, winged – and I don’t know when I love your eyes more – when they are open or shut.’

— Vladimir Nabokov in a letter to his wife Véra, 13 August 1924.