With Such Tenderness—to the Point of Tears

Clare | 27 | “...and everybody never breathed quite so many kinds of yes...” -e.e. cummings |

[soracities]

“You and your face of night, you and your hair, unhurried lightning…”

— Octavio Paz, from ‘As One Listens to the Rain’

[goldours]

camille witt

[undinesea]

When night fell, grace was given to me [...] Shining in the darkness.

Arseny Tarkovsky, “First meetings,” from Life, Life: Selected Poems

[goldours]

source

[intopermanence]

The body suddenly seemed a tumor on the brain, a mere means of conveyance, a wagon; the mind’s go-cart now taken apart, laid in pieces on this table.

Lorrie Moore, from Birds of America: Stories: “Terrific Mother”

[the-influencer]

ig: canocassandra

[soracities]

“(I am ashamed—but it is useless—I am what I am)”

— Walt Whitman, from “[Hours Continuing Long, Sore and Heavy-hearted] (Rejected Poems), Leaves of Grass

[ilookattextile]

Flowers died, haven’t thrown them out yet

[intopermanence]

“How can I accept a limited definable self when I feel, in me, all possibilities?”

— Anaïs Nin, from The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. I: “March, 1933”

[gentlekiss]

source

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

“Sometimes I don’t know how to live in the world. Why is there always this scent of sorrow?”

— Richard Jackson, from “The Twitter Novels,” Broken Horizons (Press 53, 2018) 

[soracities]

Desires are already memories.

Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities (trans. William Weaver)

[voguely]

[thoughttrajectories]

The greatest hazard of all, losing the self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all. No other loss can occur so quietly.

Kierkegaard, The Sickness Unto Death

[redrola]

[heavenlyyshecomes]

sadness comes back and comes back

as fragrant and lush as the grass

—Yu Xuanji, ‘The Fragrance of Orchids’, in The Clouds Float North: The Complete Poems of Yu Xuanji tr. David Young & Jiann I. Linn

[romanticbroadcast]

And my mind was empty—or it was as though my mind had become one enormous, anaesthetized wound. I thought only, One day I’ll weep for this. One of these days I’ll start to cry.

— James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room