fernweh

“I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things that she didn’t already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race-that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.”

[fuckindiva]

Mahmoud Darwish, Willow Tree

[owleyedsolivagant]

[trefleblanc]

I will leave this city of you I have come to live in, The place I was taught your address, How I learned your language to find my way home.

Like memory, / -trèfleblanc

[petaltexturedskies]

Delmira Agustini, from “The Ineffable” in Cantos de la mañana (originally published in 1910)

[poetic-questions]

—Margaret Atwood, “Notes Towards a Poem that Can Never Be Written”, from Selected Poems II (1976-1986)

[literaryvein]

L. V., exhumed writings

[aurorasholy]

Mhairi McFarlane, Last Night

[metamorphesque]

“I love you. I love you, but I’m turning to my verses and my heart is closing like a fist.”

— Frank O’Hara, Mayakovsky

[majestativa]

Entwine me with that body, but in the coiling of its own birth! Was she anything but reminiscence, that monstrous woman in black leather, who spun my dash up the spiral stairs?

— ABDELKEBIR KHATIBI ⚜️ Tattooed Memory, transl. by Peter Thompson, (2016)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Odysseus Elytis, tr. by Athan Anagnostopoulos, from “Maria Nephele: A Poem In Two,”

[thirdity]

“Postmodernity is the simultaneity of the destruction of earlier values and their reconstruction. It is renovation within ruination.”

— Jean Baudrillard, Cool Memories

[stillgotscars]

Gillian Flynn, Sharp Objects

[unsubconscious]

A woman admires the enormous size of a Sequoia tree, California 1950s. 

[an-overwhelming-question]

Henri Berssenbrugge - Artist Frans de Geetere and his wife, 1926

[oldpaintings]

Luci ed ombre by Giuseppe Mentessi (Italian, 1857–1931)

[quietlydull]

The Road, 2006

[volumes-and-vines]

..the trunks of the ashes and sycamores, a honey gold in the oblique sunlight, erected their dewey green vaults of young leaves; there was something mysteriously religious about them, but of a religion before religion; a druid balm, a green sweetness…

John Fowles ~ The French Lieutenant’s Woman