I Am Exulansis

Love. Poetry. Lit. Art. Aesthetics. Sometimes original. “Write more blindly, blackly / without / without anything” Alice Notley "I am technically nothing human.” Morgan Parker

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“She loved her more than anyone, more than anyone, anyone in the world, and every night she loved her more than anyone.”

— Fyodor Dostoevsky, from “The New Fantasy of an Idle Man,” wr c. 1861

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“I am more beautiful here, more loving, more sincere.”

— Colette, from The Complete Claudine Series; “Claudine Getting Married,”

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Imagination belongs to the same chain of significations as the anticipation of death. Imagination is basically the relationship with death. The image is death.

Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology (via birds-atemyface)

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Do not ask who I am and do not ask me to remain the same.

Michel Foucault   (via wordsnquotes)

[psych2go]

For more posts like these, go visit psych2go

Psych2go features various psychological findings and myths. In the future, psych2go attempts to include sources to posts for the for the purpose of generating discussions and commentaries. This will give readers a chance to critically examine psychology. 

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I wish, in a way, that we could put the clock back a year. I should like to startle you again,–even though I didn’t know then that you were startled.

Vita Sackville-West, from a letter to Virginia Woolf c. December 1926 (via violentwavesofemotion)

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People are very wearisome, really, aren’t they? I mean I feel I know exactly what they’re all going to say long before they’ve said it.

Vita Sackville-West, from a letter to Virginia Woolf c. January 1926 (via violentwavesofemotion)

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…feeling myself to be only a black dot in the middle of a frighteningly flat whiteness…

Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry featured in The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath (via violentwavesofemotion)

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Virginia Woolf committed suicide in 1941 when the German bombing campaign against England was at / its peak and when she was reading Freud whom she had staved off until then. / The hideous vocabulary of mental science crushed her dazzling / star-thoughts into powder and brought her latent despair into the open air. / Is there, perhaps, a quality in each person—hidden like a laugh inside a sob—that loves even more than / it loves to live?

Fanny Howe, from Gone: Poems; Sometimes something feels Right: “Doubt,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

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You’re like someone crossing a border daily / a person who is to itself unknown. / You’re like a fragment that can’t find what has lost it / or illuminate / what’s going on or what it’s seeing through. / A person–the first I / with few verbs left. / Vertical even when you laugh.

Fanny Howe, from Second Childhood: Poems; “Between Delays,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

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…And now the horrid winter lap begins; the pale unbecoming days, a vast sorrow at the back of it all. I must rinse & freshen my mind and make it work on something hard.

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry featured in The Complete Works of Virginia Woolf; Selected Diaries (via violentwavesofemotion)

[shinji--moon-deactivated2017123]

eh, what the fuck can i fucking say, doodaloo

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Everything pains me. The merest trifle rouses a sense of abandonment. I’m impatient with other people, their will to live, their universe. Attracted by a decision to withdraw from everyone.

Roland Barthes, tr. by Richard Howard, from a diary entry featured in “Mourning Diary,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

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I still struggle: and still, thank Heaven, feel the rush and the glory and the agony, and never get used to any of it. But I can’t write this morning. I shall not press the mood till it returns naturally.

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry featured in The Complete Works of Virginia Woolf; Selected Diaries (via violentwavesofemotion)

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She was like fate–a consummate mistress of all the arts of self preservation: hair rolled & lustrous; eyes so nonchalant; nothing could startle her; people going & coming all the time; she not looking, yet knowing, fearing nothing, expecting nothing.

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry featured in The Complete Works of Virginia Woolf; Selected Diaries (via violentwavesofemotion)

[mournfulroses]

But all this is absurd, I’m tired, I cannot at this moment express all I was thinking a while ago.

Marcel Proust, from a letter to his mother c. March 1903, featured in Selected Letters (via violentwavesofemotion)

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…How resilient I am; & how fatalistic now; and how little I mind, & how much; & how tired I am today…

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry featured in The Complete Works of Virginia Woolf; Selected Diaries (via violentwavesofemotion)