with savage delight

30 | she/they

[whitewhales]

Until then what can we do in our abandoned solitude but gaze at ourselves? Examine ourselves in endless bouts of fascinated distraction, fall in love and in hate with ourselves, make a theatre, myth and cult of ourselves. Because what else is there? To become superb in our technology, knowledge and intellect, to itch with a desire for fulfilment that we can’t quite scratch; to look to the void (which still isn’t answering) and build spaceships anyway, and make countless circlings of our lonely planet, and little excursions to our lonely moon and think thoughts like these in weightless bafflement and routine awe. To turn back to the earth, which gleams like a spotlit mirror in a pitch-dark room, and speak into the fuzz of our radios to the only life that appears to be there. Hello? Konnichiwa, ciao, zdraste, bonjour, do you read me, hello?

— Samantha Harvey, Orbital

[whitewhales]

Moby Dick Is The Best Book In The World

[primulaceas]

Isabel Allende, The House of the Spirits (translated by Magda Bogin)

[whitewhales]

the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts and seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again as she sat with the children the words of some old cradle song, murmured by nature, "I am guarding you—I am your support," but at other times suddenly and unexpectedly … had no such kindly meaning, but like a ghostly roll of drums remorselessly beat the measure of life, made one think of the destruction of the island and its engulfment in the sea, and warned her whose day had slipped past in one quick doing after another that it was all ephermal as a rainbow

— Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

[mournfulroses]

Anne Sexton, from a poem titled "Loving The Killer," featured in The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton

[7pleiades7]

Love's Messenger, (Details), (1885), by Marie Spartali Stillman (British, 1844 – 1927), watercolor, tempera and gold color on paper mounted on wood, 32 in (81.2 cm) x 26 in (66 cm), Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington

[whitewhales]

They don’t tell a woman that she can choose things that aren’t small. They don’t tell her that small stones get lost. They slip through the holes in your pocket. Or that if they get lost, you can’t choose new ones. That lost stones are lost forever. Throw out your heart, too, into the road, amid the mud and the brambles. Throw out your joy. Throw out your soul and hugs and kisses and your marriage bed. You must, you must. And now get up and look at yourself on this morning, so thin and so blue. Go down to the kitchen, and put food inside your mouth, and put it inside the children’s mouths, and inside the old man’s mouth, then inside the mouths of the cows and the calves and the sow and the hens and the dog. You must, you must. Until you forget everything else, with all those musts.

— Irene Solà, When I Sing, Mountains Dance (trans. Mara Faye Lethem)

[whitewhales]

You can’t love anyone until you have drawn blood and dipped in your fingers and enjoyed it.

— Leonora Carrington, "Waiting," in The Complete Stories of Leonora Carrington

[metamorphesque]

Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf

[themoorishwitch]

[whitewhales]

You have hated me, and that makes for as strong a bond as if you had loved me.

— Sándor Márai, Embers (trans. Carol Brown Janeway)

[whitewhales]

(…) the brotherly trust that only twins can share, because they are sports of nature, bound together in life and death, aware, even when they are grown up and separated by great distances, of everything about each other. It doesn’t matter if one lives in London and the other in a foreign country, both will fall ill at the same moment, and of the same disease. They don’t talk to each other, they don’t write, they live in different circumstances, they eat different foods, they are thousands of miles apart, and yet when they are thirty or forty years old they suffer the same affliction … Their two bodies are as organically linked as they were in the womb. And they love or hate the same people. It is a phenomenon of nature, not that common, but then again, not as rare as is usually thought. And sometimes, I’ve thought that friendship is formed of links as fateful as those between twins. A strange identity of impulses, sympathies, tasks, temperaments, and cultural formation binds two people together in a single fate. It does not matter what one of them may do against the other, that fate will remain the same. One of them may flee the other, but each will still know the other’s essence. One of them may find a new friend or a new lover, but without the other’s tacit consent this doesn’t release their bond. Their lives will unfold along similar paths whether one of them goes far away or not.

— Sándor Márai, Embers (trans. Carol Brown Janeway)

[classicalcanvas]

Sea Study (1881) by Claude Monet

[urgetocreate]

Claude Monet, Weeping Willow, 1919, Oil on canvas

[rozzed]

why not have the reader re-read a sentence now and then? it won't hurt him....

[academic-vampire]

𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔰 𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔟𝔬𝔬𝔨𝔰

[thirdity]

“You write the beginning and then you go back and rewrite the beginning, and you never got off page one. It’s kind of a syndrome, and I have a rash piece of advice which is — Go on, page two, page three, and never look back. Get something finished, no matter how lousy it is. […] Perfectionists cannot get going unless they kind of do violence to their own instincts, and just blast ahead.”

— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Last Interview and Other Conversations