No thing to bind the heart to @wakingthegrapevine-blog - Tumblr Blog

Amazing directness and simplicity from a writer who explored all the ambiguities of the English language, whose writing was so abstract and mysterious and labyrinthian. Simple, direct, as all true suffering. It was the first time she spoke as a human being.

Anaïs Nin, commenting upon Virginia Woolf’s suicide note, from The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5: 1947-1955 (via violentwavesofemotion)

violentwavesofemotion-deactivat

“The book to read at the seashore is Proust. The undulant wavelike rhythm of his phrases are like the waves of the sea. I could follow their furl and unfurling as one watches a wave rise, roll, curve, fall and renew its breathing to swell and roll and fall again. The sea-sound of Proust’s phrases rolling infinitely and ebbing. Proust the only one who knew that love could be a disease, could obsess one, devour one, destroy one.”

— Anaïs Nin, from The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5: 1947-1955

proustitute

In me is wrought the grotesque fantasy of a demon.

E. M. Cioran, On the Heights of Despair, trans. Ilinca Zarifopol-Johnston (via violentwavesofemotion)

florizels

There is some check in the flow of my being; a deep stream presses on some obstacle; it jerks; it tugs; some knot in the centre resists. Oh, this is pain, this is anguish! I faint, I fail. Now my body thaws; I am unsealed, I am incandescent.

Virginia Woolf, from The Waves (via violentwavesofemotion)