the universe sang,

and you are its song.

[gillianlesbian]

her beauty is actually painful 

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

One bird out there can’t get over his song.  To repeat is to remember.  To remember is to go on and on.

Marianne Baruch, from “day one” of “Seven Aubades for Summer,” Grace, Fallen From (Wesleyan University Press, 2008)

[grandrieux]

[thequotejournals]

I don’t do anything with my life except romanticize and decay with indecision.

Allen Ginsberg, The Book of Martyrdom and Artifice (via thequotejournals)

[mesogeios]

The heat. I think that’s the way the whole thing began. There’s a lot of landscape that I never would have described if I hadn’t been homesick. If I hadn’t wanted to remember. The impulse was nostalgia. It’s not an uncommon impulse among writers.

Joan Didion, from The Art of Fiction No. 71, Paris Review  (via kuanios)

[mothwood]

The wound can have (should only have) just one proper name. I recognize that I love — you — by this: you leave in me a wound I do not want to replace.

Jacques Derrida, from The Postcard: from Socrates to Freud and Beyond (trans. Alan Bass)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

My head is a howling wilderness.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a letter to her mother featured in Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay (via herkindoftea)

[theclassicsreader]

I know that I have died before— once in November,

Anne Sexton, from “Suicide Note” (via theclassicsreader)

[antigonick]

—in my mouth is the taste of the night—leaf.

Marina Tsvetaeva, excerpt of Insomnia (tr. by Elaine Feinstein)

[theclassicsreader]

…you must be patient like someone who is sick, and confident like some one who is recovering; for perhaps you are both.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (via theclassicsreader)

[adrasteiax]

And now I must dream the forest whole and your sweet hands, not once as frozen as those stopped trees, nor ruled, nor pale, nor leaving mine.

Anne Sexton, from The Expatriates in “The Complete Poems Of Anne Sexton” (via adrasteiax)

[murmurrs]

He’s so damned nice and he’s so awful. He’s my sort of thing.

Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises (via ginsengsheetmask)

[commonmusings]

[chandelyer-deactivated20241003]

Paolo Sebastian spring 2018 couture details part 1

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I have loved, really loved a few people and it always seemed to be tragic or something equally neurotic.

Anne Sexton, from a letter to Anthony Hecht written c. September 1961 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I take up so much space.

Denise Levertov, from Poems: 1960 - 1967; “Poet and Person,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I know it. I want to open the door and rush toward you for I love you and I love our life. Now I know. This time I know – the love isn’t sick…no, indeed, it is health, the giving force, the outward reach instead of the inward grab.

Anne Sexton, from a letter to Alfred Sexton written c. September 1963 (via violentwavesofemotion)