I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
Sylvia Plath, from ‘The Journals Of Sylvia Plath’

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@novastarna
I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
Sylvia Plath, from ‘The Journals Of Sylvia Plath’
She sings a dark, destructive song.
Euripides, from ‘Medea’
…I seemed to do none of the things I intended to do — I didn’t seem to be quite present anywhere —
Georgia O’Keeffe, in a letter to Margaret Kiskadden, from Georgia O’Keeffe: Art and Letters (via oiseauperdu)
Cape Flattery, Washington
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I have a funny heart. Sometimes it seems to thrive on punishment,…
Tennesse Williams, from a letter to Maria St. Just featured in Five O'Clock Angel: Letters of Tennessee Williams to Maria St. Just, 1948-1982 (via violentwavesofemotion)
ig @isisilvach
What are we made of but hunger and rage?
Anne Carson, excerpt of To Compostela (via antigonick)
Perhaps we may meet each other in a dream.
Marina Tsvetaeva, Bride of Ice: New Selected Poems (via invinculis)
that’s it.
All night I have dreamed of destruction, annihilations —
Sylvia Plath, from “Waking in Winter” (via theclassicsreader)
I like observing people. I like looking at things.
Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out (via wordsnquotes)
From which stars have we fallen to meet each other here?
Friedrich Nietzsche, Letter to Lou Salomé (via thelovejournals)
Are you happy.No. Oh no.
Anne Carson, Nox (via henrydear)
μέγας γὰρ Ἅιδης ἐστὶν εὔθυνος βροτῶν ἔνερθε χθονός, δελτογράφῳ δὲ πάντ᾽ ἐπωπᾷ φρενί.
Aeschylus, Eumenides 273-275
“Hades is great, Hades calls men to reckoning / there under the ground / sees all, and cuts it deep in his recording mind.” (Lattimore translation)
*dabs concealer on my personality*
Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema and fabrics