Suoja

[soracities]

“They were apt to complain that only shadows remained to them of what their love had been and meant, [but] they now came to learn that even shadows can waste away, losing the faint hues of life that memory may give.”

— Albert Camus, The Plague (trans. Justin O’Brien)

[watchoutforintellect]

“Our whole story is fairly beautiful. I give it a few prods and it makes a whole string of perfect moments. Then I close my eyes and try to imagine that I’m still living inside it.”

— Jean-Paul Sartre, from Nausea

[millyamaryllis]

[aubellona]

“A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he’s still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he’s still left with his hands.”

—

Richard Siken, Boot Theory (via henrymaarchbanks)

This quote of Richard Siken, who is one of my favorite poets, made me sad. It reminded me of Darrow’s story and also Roque’s. You can throw your sadness away, but you’re still left with your hands.

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

“As if the purpose / Of beauty / Was to hurt me more alive.”

— Gregory Orr, from “Certain poems offer me … ,” The Last Love Poem I Will Ever Write (W. W. Norton & Co., 2019)

[sundayohsunday]

pure

http://instagram.com/_goodoldfashioned/

[alooha]

by windmilldreams

[sehventies-blog]

“…I want enough time to be in love with everything.”

— Marina Keegan, The Opposite of Loneliness: Essays and Stories (via thequotejournals)

[aseaofquotes]

— Mary MacLane

Submitted by litafficionado.

[detailsofpaintings]

Jean-Baptiste Oudry, A marble vase, a hare and pomegranates on a stone ledge (details)

1736

[aixprovence-culture-blog]

Les toits d'Aix-en-Provence, début octobre, vers la fin de la journée.

[dk-thrive]

“The sunlight on the garden / Hardens and grows cold, / We cannot cage the minute / Within its nets of gold.”

— Louis MacNeice, in Heather Clark's "Red Comet: The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath" (Knopf; October 27, 2020)

[antigonick]

“One day, our ashes will scatter— it doesn’t matter when. Now the sun finds our innermost hearts, fills us with oblivion intense as the forest, winter and sea.”

—

Edith Södergran, excerpt of “Animalistic Hymn”, trans. by Brooklyn Copeland, for Poetry Magazine

Read the translator’s note here.

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

“Most of the time, the universe speaks to us very quietly … in pockets of silence, in coincidences, in nature, in forgotten memories, in the shape of clouds, in moments of solitude, in small tugs at our hearts.”

— Yumi Sakugawa

[silvaris]

Foggy Bridleway by Daniel Casson

[megairea]

C.P. Cavafy, from The City (tr. by Edmund Keeley & Philip Sherrard)

[the-night-picture-collector]

Antanas Sutkus, Marathon in University Street, Vilnius, 1959