Monologue

 Introvert-in-disguise. Socially awkward. Earl grey lover. Proudly a tea person. Bookworm-wannabe. Susan Sontag and Marina Abramovic fan. Tumblr is the place that I post my random...

[intopermanence]

“Anaïs Nin: she is very startling — pixie-like, other-worldly — small, finely-built, dark hair, and much make-up which made her look very pale — large, questioning eyes — a marked accent which I could not label — her speech is over-precise — she shines and polishes each syllable with the very tip of her tongue and teeth — one feels that if one were to touch her, she would crumble into silver dust.”

— Susan Sontag, from Reborn: “April 8th, 1949”

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“Nature and art are in this way twins: they are both beautiful, and dreadful, and in love with change.”

— Mary Oliver, from Winter Hours: Prose, Prose-Poems, And Poems; “Winter Hours,”

[crucifiedlovers]

“The look—more intimate (committing) than the sexual embrace, because there is no room for detachment in it…”

— Susan Sontag, Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1963

[goreprofonde]

"Beauty is theatrical"

- Susan Sontag, An Argument About Beauty.

[nerianasims]

“Nothing is more punitive than to give a disease a meaning—that meaning being invariably a moralistic one.”

— Susan Sontag

[sexualsportswear]

BYE 

[last-picture-show]

Annie Leibovitz, Susan Sontag, Petra, Jordan, 1994

[salemwitchtrials-deactivated202]

Susan Sontag, As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980

[nizariat]

“Rome, did you suffer a fire like mine? روما هل قاسيتي حريقا مثل حريقي”

— Mahmoud Darwish

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“This solitude is my home.”

— Rosalía de Castro, tr. by Kate Flores from “Now All That Sound of Laughter,”

[markiana528]

We don’t have lovers, we take hostages.

[cartoonnetwork]

A cozy cuddle puddle to warm up your Wednesday 💕

[salemwitchtrials-deactivated202]

Excerpt From: Susan Sontag. “Reborn.” 

[dreams-in-metaphors-deactivated]

[honeyandelixir]

“Out of jasmine the night’s blood streams white. Your perfume, my weakness and your secret, follows me like a snakebite”

— Mahmoud Darwish

[nemophilies-deactivated20190428]

“Cities are smells: Acre is the smell of iodine and spices. Haifa is the smell of pine and wrinkled sheets. Moscow is the smell of vodka on ice. Cairo is the smell of mango and ginger. Beirut is the smell of the sun, sea, smoke, and lemons. Paris is the smell of fresh bread, cheese, and derivations of enchantment. Damascus is the smell of jasmine and dried fruit. Tunis is the smell of night musk and salt. Rabat is the smell of henna, incense, and honey. A city that cannot be known by its smell is unreliable. Exiles have a shared smell: the smell of longing for something else; a smell that remembers another smell. A panting, nostalgic smell that guides you, like a worn tourist map, to the smell of the original place. A smell is a memory and a setting sun. Sunset, here, is beauty rebuking the stranger. But to love the sunset is not, as they say, one of the attributes of exile. Memory, your personal museum, takes you into the realms of what is lost. A sesame field, a plot of lettuce, mint, a round sun that falls into the sea. What is lost grows in you and in the sunset, which grants what is distant the attributes of paradise and purges it of any defect. Whatever is lost is worshipped.”

— Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence, trans. Sinan Antoon

[communicants]

“Are we what we do with time, or are we what time does with us?”

— Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence