frozen tears

𝓛iv, she/her · infp · millennial · europe a dreamy and melancholy softness ♡ ꒱

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Katherine Mansfield, in a diary entry dated 14 October 1922, from Letters and Journals of Katherine Mansfield

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Martha Gellhorn, The Selected Letters

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William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury

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Susan Sontag, Death Kit (originally published 1967)

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The secret of being happy consists of knowing how to enjoy yourself—enjoy being at table, in bed, enjoy standing up, sitting down, enjoy the nearest ray of sunshine, the slightest bit of landscape: in other words, love everything. Thus it follows that to be happy you must already be so there's no bread without leavening.

Gustave Flaubert, from a notebook entry written c. September 1839

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The studio itself is characteristically harmonious. The bronze or burnt-gold walls, soft-green pillows and velvety couches, a long, narrow table in the center with a blue candlestick at each end, old-fashioned chairs, the books all about, the fireplace, the gold-framed mirrors and paintings, the soft-green hangings—all these are of flawless taste and quiet, soothing charm.

Anaïs Nin, in a diary entry dated 29 October 1923, from The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin Vol. III: 1923-1927

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THE SECRET GARDEN (1993) dir. Agnieszka Holland

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what r ur kinks

I'm consumed by grief

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Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine

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Ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the letter you must write immediately, and do all you can to console me in it - make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been. For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair.

John Keats, Bright Star: Love Letters and Poems John Keats to Fanny Brawne

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Florence Welch via instagram 🪻

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I sleep with my feet on moss carpets, my branches in the cotton of the clouds.

Anaïs Nin, Under a Glass Bell

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Virginia Woolf in a diary entry dated 18 August 1921, from A Writer's Diary

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The summer night glowed; in the field fireflies were glinting. And for those who understood such things, the stars were sending messages.

Louise Glück, from "Midsummer" in Poems 1962-2012

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They went out laughing into the warm soft night, and the magic was about them everywhere.

Daphne du Maurier, Don't Look Now