Paper Moon

Heart of a Poet, Soul of a Warrior

[tamsoj]

Gustav Janouch, Conversations with Kafka

[wrestlewithwriting-deactivated2]

“Book collecting is an obsession, an occupation, a disease, an addiction, a fascination, an absurdity, a fate. It is not a hobby. Those who do it must do it. Those who do not do it, think of it as a cousin of stamp collecting, a sister of the trophy cabinet, bastard of a sound bank account and a weak mind.”

— Jeanette Winterson

[thisblognolongerexistz]

“Love is vivid. I never wanted the pale version. Love is full strength. I never wanted the diluted version. I never shied away from love’s hugeness but I had no idea that love could be as reliable as the sun. The daily rising of love.”

— Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? by Jeannette Winterson

[werewolflowers]

“As it is, I can’t settle, I want someone who is fierce and will love me until death and know that love is as strong as death and be on my side for ever and ever. I want someone who will destroy and be destroyed by me. There are many forms of love and affection, some people can spend their whole lives together without knowing each other’s names. Naming is a difficult and time-consuming process; it concerns essences, and it means power. But on the wild nights who can you call home? Only the one who knows your name.”

— Jeannette Winterson, Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit

[one-legged-piano]

“I can’t go back into the past and change it, but I have noticed that the future changes the past. What I call the past is my memory of it and my memory is conditioned by who I am now. Who I will be. The only way for me to handle what is happening is to move myself forward into someone who has handled it.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Gut Symmetries

[erineulogio]

“Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it. What then kills love? Only this: Neglect. Not to see you when you stand before me. Not to think of you in the little things. Not to make the road wide for you, the table spread for you. To choose you out of habit not desire, to pass the flower seller without a thought. To leave the dishes unwashed, the bed unmade, to ignore you in the mornings, make use of you at night. To crave another while pecking your cheek. To say your name without hearing it, to assume it is mine to call.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body

[its-all-down-hill]

[katiesclassicbooks]

“For my part, I think we need more emotion, not less. But I think, too, that we need to educate people in how to feel. Emotionalism is not the same as emotion. We cannot cut out emotion- in the economy of the human body, it is the limbic, not the neural, highway that takes precedence. We are not robots - apologies there, Spike - but we act as though all our problems would be solved if only we had no emotions to cloud our judgement.”

- The Stone Gods by Jeannette Winterson

[grammatolatry]

“I took the Metro to Cité. I walked past Notre-Dame and thought of the hunchback Quasimodo swinging his misshapen body across the bell-ropes of love for Esmerelda. Quasimodo was a deaf mute. Cupid is blind. Freud called love an ‘overestimation of the object.’ But I would swing through the ringing world for you.”

— -Jeannette Winterson, “All I Know About Gertrude Stein”

[wellconstructedsentences]

“Trust me, I’m telling you stories…. I can change the story. I am the story.”

— The Passion by Jeannette Winterson

[mythomaniia]

when dave malloy said “i feel my body stretch between two cliffs. one side is fantasy, the other reality. i feel my fingers start to lose their grip, and I can’t hold on,” and when richard siken said “this is where the evening splits in half, henry, love or death. grab an end, pull hard, and make a wish,” and when jeanette winterson said “people do go back, but they don’t survive, because two realities are claiming them at the same time,” and when kevin vibert said “i just keep thinking about that night, and there was this second in the doorway, and it lasted so long I feel like part of me’s still there,” and when

[astrasperas]

“I think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love. We are good people and we’ve suffered enough.”

— Seventy Years of Sleep # 4. nikka ursula (n.t)

[myinkstainedheart]

If you are spring, come to me, sweeten the mouth, lay pink florets over my round bosom. Come to me, loosen the braid resting on the nape if you are autumn. If you are winter, come also, it is high time to be bold, my trembling hands will unveil my flaw. Any time, any season, return to me. Come nonetheless, come nonetheless.

[myinkstainedheart]

“Prose is about what can be said and what is known and so on. Poetry is about what cannot be expressed. I mean, terrible grief, or intense erotic feeling, or even unspeakable anger are all inexpressible. You can’t put them in words and that’s why you try to put them in words. Because that’s all you’ve got.”

— W. S. Merwin, in an interview with Joel Whitney (via weissewiese)

[myinkstainedheart]

These Three Words

There they go noisy as rain, or leaves or tender as the dew that blooms in the night then fall and dry under the sun, but I free them nonetheless for I have no use of them but to let them seek you. At times they shock the way the dissonance of clashing metal pans startle a man, sleeping. And when I am soft, they glide quietly as the silky slip, off my hips, slipping.

[paperm0n]

Home They say she cleans her lavish Persian carpet and hangs it under the sun on Sundays; They say in late afternoon the wind is scented with her cake in the oven, jasmine in her garden, and blues in the radio from her backyard; They say she picks one of her twenty-two night dresses made of silk or velvet to wear and goes to bed alone each night. They say she leaves her porch light on every night despite no one has seen her guest.  They say she loves her home behind those bellflower blossoms at the end of the driveway and will never leave here, as if a beautiful bird holds onto its nest. Then there comes a drizzling night when a man in black drops by and takes her away. Years have gone by, never have they seen her slender shadow behind the bellflower blossoms again. At night her porch goes into endless darkness like an extinguished candle drowned into the midnight.  Then they say for all these years she has crossed oceans and deserts with this very man she loves; they now live in a small wooden cabin on the cliff edge, out of two suitcases. They say they get drunk in their midnight conversations and fall asleep on the grass watching stars in each other’s arms. They say the jasmine she planted has now climbed up the small cedar walls and scented her washed linen under the afternoon sun. They say she makes a safe nest everywhere she goes. It is love that makes a place home after all. #poem #poetry #beautifulstory #home #homegarden https://www.instagram.com/p/CEG4LO0pwpL/?igshid=szzchy7ul6wx

[paperm0n]

Ok, I have decided to commit to writing at least one hour per day. As recently I have grown fond of photography, I will try to combine these two both. A little bit of background - I started to learn English when I was about 10 - 11 in China. I remember I started spoken English first, without knowing ABCs. English was once Harry Potter spells to me. It was about 8 years ago when I left China and started to live with English. I have always lived with a rich inner being and a poetic heart, thanks to the immense readings I did when I was young. For that I deeply fell in love with English language and want to create a paradise of beautiful words and mindfulness together. 🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹 I was having fun playing with colour filters tonight. I love them both equally. 💜🧡 What about you? #portraitphotography #portrait #filters #colourfilter #mystory https://www.instagram.com/p/CEBsm7lJ6us/?igshid=j9qly13iaf2y