[recortes literários]

[sureaintmebabe]

I took the garbage out into the hallway and threw it down the trash chute. Having a trash chute was one of my favorite things about my building. It made me feel important, like I was participating in the world. My trash mixed with the trash of others. The things I touched touched things other people had touched. I was contributing. I was connecting.

Ottessa Moshfegh (My Year of Rest and Relaxation)

[recortesliterarios]

Her virginity was a self-conscious and militant repudiation of the common lot of the female with its intrinsic low status, which, then as now, appeared to have something to do with being fucked. Joan wanted to be virtuous in the old sense, before the Christians got hold of it: virtuous meant brave, valiant. She incarnated virtue in its original meaning: strength or manliness. Her virginity was an essential element of her virility, her autonomy, her rebellious and intransigent self-definition. Virginity was freedom from the real meaning of being female; it was not just another style of being female. Being female meant tiny boundaries and degraded possibilities; social inferiority and sexual subordination; obedience to men; surrender to male force or violence; sexual accessibility to men or withdrawal from the world; and civil insignificance.

Andrea Dworkin in Intercouse

[bookmania]

I attempted briefly to consecrate myself in the public library, believing every crack in my soul could be chinked with a book.

Barbara Kingslover (via bookmania)

[recortesliterarios]

Draco sat up and turned towards him in the half-dark, his eyes glittering. “Most of us are gone,” he hissed, and Harry’s stomach knotted. “They were too much of the earth, too wild, too bound to tree and mountain and river. They couldn’t find the beauty in cold iron and carved wood and worked stone, woven cloth and tanned leather. And the Muggles cut down the forests, built farms and bridges and roads and railways, and so the others went under hill and they’ll never come back again. But we’re still here, what’s left of us, and the old blood can still run true in you if you let it, instead of shutting your ears and trying to pretend you don’t feel it.”

House Proud by astolat

[recortesliterarios]

Draco made an impatient jerk of his hand. “Oh, if you’re going to line him up against Voldemort, fine, he wasn’t a soulless abomination who wanted to devour the earth. I’ll even grant you he wasn’t stupid enough to think he could make use of the monster, like my father was,” he added bitterly. “It was all pointless, anyway. There’s no sense trying to force people to follow the call of the old ways. The ones who don’t feel it can’t, anyway. But it’s people like Sirius, like you, that drive the rest of us mad. You do feel it, but you pretend you don’t because—I don’t even know. Because it’s easier, because you’d rather pretend you’re kind and sweet and nothing to be afraid of? And meanwhile a little more wonder fades out of the world, every time one of you turns away.”

House Proud by astolat

[staff]

Poetry Rounduuuup

April is National Poetry Month A time to exalt in sweet words Tumblr’s got poets straight out the wazoo So here’s some cool links for you nerds

Uut Poetry (@uutpoetry)

Uut Poetry is a…magazine? Of surrealist poetry. It’s really nicely curated and designed and you’ll get the whole deal if you read the manifesto-esque about page.

The Academy of American Poets (@poetsorg)

This is the official blog of The Academy of American Poets. Nice lil’ images with lines from all sorts of poets. Good follow for the casual appreciator.

Lang Leav (@langleav)

Lang Leav is an OG Tumblr poet and she has a book now. So.

Forgetlings (@forgetlings​)

This is Daniel Stephensen, who posts his own poetry, other people’s poetry, some things that aren’t poetry, etc.

James Andrew Crosby (@jamesandrewcrosby​)

For fans of poems written on things. Visual poems, if you will. Voems? No—just Visual Poems.

[recortesliterarios]

The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough.

In a Station of the Metro, by Ezra Pound

[recortesliterarios]

December 24th and we’re through again. This time for good I know because I didn’t throw you out — and anyway we waved. No shoes. No angry doors. We folded clothes and went our separate ways. You left behind that flannel shirt of yours I liked but remembered to take your toothbrush. Where are you tonight? Richard, it’s Christmas Eve again and old ghosts come back home. I’m sitting by the Christmas tree wondering where did we go wrong. Okay, we didn’t work, and all memories to tell you the truth aren’t good. But sometimes there were good times. Love was good. I loved your crooked sleep beside me and never dreamed afraid. There should be stars for great wars like ours. There ought to be awards and plenty of champagne for the survivors. After all the years of degradations, the several holidays of failure, there should be something to commemorate the pain. Someday we’ll forget that great Brazil disaster. Till then, Richard, I wish you well. I wish you love affairs and plenty of hot water, and women kinder than I treated you. I forget the reason, but I loved you once, remember? Maybe in this season, drunk and sentimental, I’m willing to admit a part of me, crazed and kamikaze, ripe for anarchy, loves still.

One Last Poem for Richard, by Sandra Cisneros

[recortesliterarios]

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.   Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.   In time the curtain-edges will grow light.   Till then I see what’s really always there:   Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,   Making all thought impossible but how   And where and when I shall myself die.   Arid interrogation: yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse   —The good not done, the love not given, time   Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because   An only life can take so long to climb Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;   But at the total emptiness for ever, The sure extinction that we travel to And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,   Not to be anywhere, And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true. This is a special way of being afraid No trick dispels. Religion used to try, That vast moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die, And specious stuff that says No rational being Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,   No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,   Nothing to love or link with, The anaesthetic from which none come round. And so it stays just on the edge of vision,   A small unfocused blur, a standing chill   That slows each impulse down to indecision.   Most things may never happen: this one will,   And realisation of it rages out In furnace-fear when we are caught without   People or drink. Courage is no good: It means not scaring others. Being brave   Lets no one off the grave. Death is no different whined at than withstood. Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.   It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,   Have always known, know that we can’t escape,   Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring   In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

Aubade, by Philip Larkin

[oldfilmsflicker]

“One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop for National Poetry Month

[recortesliterarios]

The moon in the bureau mirror looks out a million miles (and perhaps with pride, at herself, but she never, never smiles) far and away beyond sleep, or perhaps she's a daytime sleeper. By the Universe deserted, she'd tell it to go to hell, and she'd find a body of water, or a mirror, on which to dwell. So wrap up care in a cobweb and drop it down the well into that world inverted where left is always right, where the shadows are really the body, where we stay awake all night, where the heavens are shallow as the sea is now deep, and you love me.

Insomnia, by Elizabeth Bishop

[recortesliterarios]

"Don't you talk to me about Slytherin," Malfoy snaps, looking angrier than Harry imagined he would because of a little house related slight. They joke about their houses all the time. "You know nothing about Slytherin. What would you have us do, when everyone hated us? When it seemed like even the adults had it in for us, sometimes? Somebody had to like us. Somebody had to have faith we could do something other than go mad and try to take over the world, or whatever you lot always expected of us. I always wonder if it ever occurred to them, at Hogwarts, that we were children, that they could cultivate us and encourage us in a certain way and then maybe we'd realise there were ways to be powerful and successful and cunning, ways to use our talents, without turning to the dark arts. I certainly would have liked that kind of influence a little earlier. We could have been great. We could have been great for you. But we weren't really told that very much, were we, and we weren't about to let you think you could get to us – that's not how you win anything, Potter. Shouldn't you know about winning things all the time?" [...] "I know I can't really blame everybody else for my choices," says Malfoy, flopping back down on his back and holding a hand to his forehead, as though steadying himself, or feeling for a fever. "They're still my choices, and they were still stupid, and the pureblood thing is still bullshit. But don't talk about Slytherin when you don't have a clue about it."

Here’s the pencil, make it work by ignatiustrout

[recortesliterarios]

You are a strange child, Miss Jane, a little roving, solitary thing.

Charlotte Brontë

[recortesliterarios]

I have been studying how I may compare this prison where I live unto the world. And for because the world is populous and here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it; Yet I'll hammer it out. My brain I'll prove the female to my soul, my soul the father; A generation of still-breeding thoughts, and these same thoughts people this little world, thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot unlikely wonders; how these vain weak nails may tear a passage through the flinty ribs of this hard world, my ragged prison walls, and, for they cannot, die in their own pride. Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves that they are not the first of fortune's slaves, nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars who sitting in the stocks refuge their shame, that many have and others must sit there; and in this thought they find a kind of ease, bearing their own misfortune on the back of such as have before endured the like. Thus play I in one person many people, and none contented: Sometimes am I king; then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, and so I am, then crushing penury persuades me I was better when a king; then am I kinged again.

Richard II

[recortesliterarios]

Malfoy had given him a blowjob. Draco Malfoy had just given him a blowjob. At least, Harry was pretty sure that's what that was. It was still a blowjob when it was two blokes, right? Or did they call that a blokejob? Hmmm.

Hey, Potter by SunseticMonster

[recortesliterarios]

Some people can't help but ruin everything.

The Vanishing Department by dicta_contrion

[sureaintmebabe]

He hated Slytherins, hated how enigmatic they were, how they so enjoyed riddles. How insightful they could be. He hated that he might love one of them, and they were the hardest people in the world to walk across a live battle field in your shirtsleeves with your arms spread and your eyes closed.

Azoth - zeigeistic (via sureaintmebabe)