Transient Guests

Matthew/23/Providence

[nostalgic-solitude7]

It’s showtime, folks!

All That Jazz (Bob Fosse, 1979)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Her eyes are torn places.

Alice Notley, from In The Pines: Poems; “In Forgetting,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[slovvdiiv]

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[cinemaphiles-blog]

Wild at Heart (1990) Dir. David Lynch

[bunnycorcoran]

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Losing My Taste for the Night Life- Arthur Russell

[laultimaola]

Barry Lyndon (Stanley Kubrick, 1975)

[strangememories]

Thief (1981), directed by Michael Mann

[blackermit]

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[theclassicsreader]

The sense of beauty leads us astray,

James Joyce, Ulysses (via theclassicsreader)

[ceasepool]

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when all the numbers swim together and all the shadows settle  when doors forced open shut again  a flytrap and a petal  my eyes burn and claws rush to fill them  and in the morning after the night  i fall in love with the light  it is so clear i realize  that here at last i have my eyes 

[doloresdelrio-deactivated202206]

The Piano Teacher (La Pianiste), 2001

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Her beauty was sharp and delicate, intolerant, challenging.

Alice Munro, from Stories; “Something I’ve been Meaning to Tell You,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[chaucit0-deactivated20210105]

Being alone has a power over me that never fails. My interior dissolves (for the time being only superficially) and is ready to release what lies deeper. When I am willfully alone, a slight ordering of my interior begins to take place and I need nothing more.

Franz Kafka, Diaries of Franz Kafka (via shesmydulcinea)

[danglingthpider]

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[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

The same cycle–excitement and despair, excitement and despair.

Alice Munro, from “Cortes Island,” published in The New Yorker c. 1988 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[pixendrit]

As I Was Moving Ahead Occasionally I Saw Brief Glimpses of Beauty

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I can only rouse myself by thinking of you. In particular, I want to know 1. how you are. 2. What you are thinking; 3. what feeling; 4. what imagining,

Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Jacques Raverat written c. December 1924 (via violentwavesofemotion)