Which books by Virginia Woolf have you read? Have you read "Moments of Being"?
I’ve read The Voyage Out, Night and Day, Mrs. Dalloway, The Waves, and A Writer’s Diary. I have yet to read To the Lighthouse or A Room of One’s Own, but I know I will one day. I’ve certainly heard of Moments of Being and would love to read it, along with all her essays. She was incredibly prolific and I think it would take a lifetime to read all her work and fully comprehend the genius of what she created. My fascination with her is neverending. In my women and gender studies class, we had to decorate journals in which we’ll be writing our reactions to the things we read and I chose to adorn mine with pictures of all the women I look up to and that have shaped me as a feminist, writer, and thinker. Of course I had to put Woolf on there! She’s made me who I am. I owe so much to her and can’t imagine my life without her.
“Night. Moon. Black leaves.
I open the French window wide:
Between us other barriers,
On my threshold
When my window is open upon the night,
Moths, black leaves, moonlight.”—Kathleen Raine (1908-2003) (via silver-age) (via yama-bato) (via crashinglybeautiful)
“How little we know of what there is to know. I wish that I were going to live a long time instead of going to die today because I have learned much about life in these four days; more, I think, than in all the other time. I’d like to be an old man and to really know. I wonder if you keep on learning or if there is only a certain amount each man can understand. I thought I knew about so many things that I know nothing of. I wish there was more time.”—Ernest Hemingway in For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940) (via predatorywaspobserver)
“He understood that men were forever strangers to one another, that no one ever comes really to know anyone, that imprisoned in the dark womb of our mother, we come to life without having seen her face, that we are given to her arms a stranger, and that, caught in that insoluble prison of being, we escape it never, no matter what arms may clasp us, what mouth may kiss us, what heart may warm us.”—Thomas Wolfe in Look Homeward, Angel (1929) (via predatorywaspobserver)
“[This soil is bad for certain kinds of flowers. Certain seeds it will not nurture, certain fruit it will not bear, and when the land kills of its own volition, we acquiesce and say the victim had no right to live. We are wrong, of course, but it doesn’t matter. It’s too late.] At least on the edge of my town, among the garbage and the sunflowers of my town, it’s much, much, much too late.”—The Bluest Eye, by Toni Morrison (via the-final-sentence)
“I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of the hunger for life that gnaws in us all, to keep alive in our hearts a sense of the inexpressibly human.”—Black Boy, by Richard Wright (via the-final-sentence)
“Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.”—“The Solitary Reaper” by William Wordsworth (via the-final-sentence)
On this day in 1998, English poet Ted Hughes passed away from liver cancer at the age of 68.
Hughes was married to acclaimed writer Sylvia Plath but was a well respected poet in his own right who often, in our opinion, gets overlooked.
He was a winner of the Whitbread Prize in both 1997 and 1998 for his works Tales from Ovid and Birthday Letters respectively. The prestigious Whitbread Prize has been awarded to authors such as Seamus Heaney and J.K. Rowling.
Our favorite work by Hughes is undoubtedly his most popular if not his most controversial. “Crow: From the Life and Songs of the Crow” is a collection of poems which centers around a singular character… the crow. If you have never experienced this work for yourself, check it out here! Many have criticized Hughes for attacking God. We happen to think Hughes spends more time attacking society’s exaltation of God. But, this is the wonderful thing about poetry… it’s all about perspective!
Today, we encourage our readers to spend a little time of their own with Crow… you may encounter some songs of your own with the Crow, which we like to think is still out there in the world, circling living poets and lamenting the dead ones.
Write on in peace Mr Hughes!
He is too often overlooked and demonized. I have immense respect for him.
“I want every word i write to be born, truly born, none to be artificial, every one to be essential. For otherwise there is no point to it at all. and that is why i shall never be able to make a living by writing…every word born of an inner—writing must never be anything else.”—Etty Hillesum (via crashinglybeautiful, lrapizo)
“I am not easily frightened. Not because I am brave, but because I know that I am dealing with human beings, and that i must try as hard as i can to understand everything that anyone ever does. And that was the real import of this morning: not that a disgruntled young Gestapo officer yelled at me, but that I felt no indignation, rather a real compassion…All the blame must be put on the system that uses such people. What needs eradicating is the evil in man, not man himself.”—Etty Hillesum (via jonathn) (via crashinglybeautiful)
“The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr’d within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp’d
They slept on the abyss without a surge
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expired before;
The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.”—Darkness by Lord Byron (via the-final-sentence)
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness,—- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
oh thanks! I’ll definitely try to have fun in between all the projects, papers, and tests! It’s a bit grueling but what I look forward to most is learning about history, feminism, and literature. I’ve always been the kind of person who enjoyed learning. So I’m hoping that college will be an enriching experience.
“[In a while, one of us will go up to bed
and the other will follow.]
Then we will slip below the surface of the night
into miles of water, drifting down and down
to the dark, soundless bottom
until the weight of dreams pulls us lower still,
below the shale and layered rock,
beneath the strata of hunger and pleasure,
into the broken bones of the earth itself,
into the marrow of the only place we know.”—Osso Buco, by Billy Collins (via the-final-sentence)
“Slowly but surely I have been soaking Rilke up these last few months: the man, his work and his life. And that is probably the only right way with literature, with study, with people or with anything else: to let it all soak in, to let it all mature slowly inside you until it has become a part of yourself. That, too, is a growing process. Everything is a growing process. And in between, emotions and sensations that strike you like lightning. But still the most important thing is the organic process of growing.”—Etty Hillesum
I just started college a few days ago, which means I won’t be able to update this tumblr as much as I have in the past. College is a very overwhelming experience for me because it’s the first time I’ve ever been on my own but it’s going well so far.
I just want to let you know what to expect from me in the next few months when it comes to the content of this tumblr. I’m taking a British Authors class, so you can expect quotes from Keats, Byron, and all the other sublime Romantic poets, as well as passages from other British masterpieces like Frankenstein and Jane Eyre.
I’m also taking a course that is an introduction to women and gender studies, therefore I might post some quotes from the readings assigned for that class.
Other classes I’m taking are: a seminar about the history of the civil rights movement here in america; and an english composition course that requires me to read a very interesting non-fiction book about Hurricane Katrina and all the complex issues surrounding the disaster.
I really want to share great quotes, passages, and poems from all my readings this semester and I hope all of you like them. :-)
Thanks for posting the link to the Anne Frank tree :-)
You are very welcome! I don’t know if you’re new to my tumblr, but people who have been following me for a while know about my obsession with Anne Frank, The Holocaust, and other genocides. In the future, I hope to post more about these subjects.
On August 23, 2010 the chestnut tree that Anne Frank wrote about in her diary fell down. In honor of the tree, the Anne Frank House has now created a virtual tree that you can add a leaf to with your name on it.
I drifted on the bouquet of your red tongue for two years. It was a kingdom, the stadium of your face. I took sweets from a sealed jar when mother wasn’t looking. I grew up on the back steps of St. Mary’s where I learned to scream at kitten boys that didn’t do what I said. We took the body and the blood in time. It is possible to be divine in one afternoon.
A girl kneels on pebbles to feel the roughness that will change her destiny.
When you died, Vincent started his fascination with glass: its world of definites. Cut or uncut. Severed or whole. It is the year 2000 and all our failures are tangible. Vincent is 30 and carries a pistol wrapped in a powder-blue handkerchief. He will use it on the clocks, the countenance of apples, the delicate house of some girl’s throat still dripping with wine.
Let me sleep now, in the shelter, in the halt. Stop.
At your burial, I dropped carnations into the big earth. Mother pulled me along by the sleeve. Now there is the sound of great thunder as the brothers come running through the house, their boots cracking the surface of things, fuck you’s dropping from their fat lips.
One organ persists alone. Three notes repeating and repeating.
I am governed by terror, sleeplessness, nostalgia. Mother of God helps me out with my daily chores. I capture heat in a rusted pot, smooth the bed sheets with a hammer, take up the hours with my veined hands. Father, there are magnificent shadows engraving themselves onto the dinner table. I keep thinking that you are telling me to go. Let me sleep and dream of the falling architecture of this house, transform it into an imitation of heaven. My eyes are closed, two razors.
Dear Father, What kind of music is coming from me? What kind?
i noticed you list eudora welty as one of your favorite authors - i just read "a piece of news" a few days ago for one of my classes and was pretty intrigued by it. i haven't read anything else of hers yet, but i would like to. what do you recommend?
I absolutely love Eudora Welty. I bought her collected short stories for less than $2 on amazon.com and I’m so glad I did because it is a book worth having. My favorite stories from it are: “The Key,” “Clytie,” “Death of a Traveling Salesman,” “A Curtain of Green, and “The Whistle.” Her most famous short story is “A Worn Path”, which you can read here. If you do read more of her work I hope you find it as rewarding as I do!
“[I’ll never die.] I’m skimming across the surface of my own history, moving fast, riding the melt beneath the blades, doing loops and spins, and when I take a high leap into the dark and come down thirty years later, I realize it is as Tim trying to save Timmy’s life with a story.”—The Things They Carried, by Tim O’ Brien (via the-final-sentence)
“It often happens to me know that when I lie down for sleep at night instead of getting drowsy I feel wakeful and lying here in bed I begin to live over little scenes from real life or imaginary scenes. Its not too much to say they are almost hallucinations: they are marvellously vivid. I lie on my right side & put my left hand up to my forehead as though I were praying. This seems to induce the state. Then for instance its 10.30 p.m. on a big liner in mid ocean…
People are beginning to leave the Ladies Cabin. Father puts his head in & asks if one of you would care for a walk before you turn in, its glorious up on deck. That begins it. I am there. Details - father rubbing his gloves, the cold air, the night air rather he brings to the door, the pattern of everything, the feel of the brass stair rail & the rubber stairs. Then the deck. The pause while the cigar is lighted, the look of all in the moonlight, the steadying hum of the ship, the 1st officer on the deck, so far aloft the bells, the steward going into the smoking room with a tray, stepping over the high brass-bound step. All these things are far realer, more in detail, richer than Life. And I believe I could go on until….there’s no end to it. I can do this about anything. Only there are no personalities. Neither am I there personally. People are only part of the silence, not of the pattern - vastly different to that - part of the scheme. I could only do this to a certain extent - but its only since I was really ill that this shall we call it “consolation prize” has been given to me. my God, it’s a marvellous thing!”—Katherine Mansfield (Notebooks) (via katherine-mansfield)
“Death, whoever and whatever you are, tallest king of
tall kings, grant me these wishes: unstring my bones;
let me be not one thing but all things, and wondrously
scattered; shake me free from my name. Let the wind, and
the wildflowers, and the catbird never know it. Let
time loosen me like the bead of a flower form its wrappings
of leaves. Let me begin the changes, let me—”—Mary Oliver (via awakeinthedream)
“In your rocking-chair, by your window dreaming, shall you long, alone. In your rocking-chair, by your window, shall you dream such happiness as you may never feel.”—Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser (via the-final-sentence)
“There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved.”—On the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin (via the-final-sentence)
On Tuesday, the Associated Press reported that a twenty-nine-year-old Swiss woman named Claire Jane Ackermann drowned on Saturday while attempting to cross the Teklanika River, near Denali National Park in central Alaska.
This tragic story might not have been picked up outside of Alaska, except for the A.P.’s report that Ackermann, along with a male companion who survived, was trying to reach the abandoned bus where Christopher McCandless, the young wanderer made famous by Jon Krakauer’s nonfiction book “Into the Wild,” died in 1992. It seems that the bus has become an attraction for adventurous tourists, following the success of Krakauer’s book and the 2007 film adaptation directed by Sean Penn and starring Emile Hirsch.
“Not a leaf stirred, the grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow roar of the sea came up to them, speaking of peace, of the eternal sleep lying in wait for us all. The sea had roared like this long before there was any Yalta or Oreanda, it was roaring now, and it would go on roaring, just as indifferently and hollowly, when we had passed away. And it may be that in this continuity, this utter indifference to the life and death of each of us lies hidden the pledge of our eternal salvation, of the continuous movement of life on earth, of the continuous movement toward perfection.”—Anton Chekhov, from The Lady with the Little Dog (via suspiria-de-profundis) (via dinkenesh)