“A soul is light when full,
heavy when vacuous.
My soul is light. She is not afraid
to dance the agony alone,
for I was born wearing your shirt,
will come from the dead with that shirt on.”—Vera Pavlova, from "I am in love, hence free to live" (translated by Steven Seymour)
“She was part of her room—part of the great bouquet of southern anemones, of the white page net curtains that blew in stiff against the light breeze, of the mirrors, the white silky rugs; she was part of the high, shaking, quivering clamour, broken with little bells and crying voices that went streaming by outside,—part of the leaves and the light.”—Katherine Mansfield, “This Flower” (via katherine-mansfield)
“We went down into the silent garden. Dawn is the time when nothing breathes, the hour of silence. Everything is transfixed, only the light moves.”—Leonora Carrington, The House of Fear, 1988 (via proustitute)
“And people are often unable to do anything, imprisoned as they are in I don’t know what kind of terrible, terrible, oh such terrible cage. […] Do you know what makes the prison disappear? Every deep, genuine affection. Being friends, being brothers, loving, that is what opens the prison, with supreme power, by some magic force. Without these one stays dead. But whenever affection is revived, there life revives.”—Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother Theo (July 1880) (via predatorywaspobserver)
“This is a disease I carry home, this is a death.
Again, this is a death. Is it the air,
The particles of destruction I suck up? Am I a pulse
That wanes and wanes, facing the cold angel?
Is this my lover then? This death, this death?
As a child I loved a lichen-bitten name.
Is this the one sin then, this old dead love of death?”—Sylvia Plath, from Three Women
How sick is she? Is she exaggerating? And I recoiled, just a little, Just for balance, just for symmetry, Into sceptical patience, a little. ‘Come on, now,’ I soothed. ‘Don’t be so scared. It’s only a bug, don’t let it run away with you.’
What I really thought was: ‘Stop crying wolf.’ Other thoughts, chilly, familiar thoughts, Came across the tightrope: ‘Stop crying wolf, Or else I shall not know, I shall not hear When things get really bad.’
You were overloaded. I said nothing. I said nothing. The stone man made soup. The burning woman drank it.
“That perhaps is your task — to find the relation between things that seem incompatible yet have a mysterious affinity, to absorb every experience that comes your way fearlessly and saturate it completely.”—Virginia Woolf,A Letter To A Young Poet. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
“Make up a story. Narrative is radical, creating us at the very moment it is being created. We will not blame you if your reach exceeds your grasp; if love so ignites your words they go down in flames and nothing is left but their scald. Or if, with the reticence of a surgeon’s hands, your words suture only the places where blood might flow. We know you can never do it properly—once and for all. Passion is never enough; neither is skill. But try. For our sake and yours forget your name in the street; tell us what the world has been to you in the dark places and in the light. … Language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names.”—Toni Morrison, from the 1993 Nobel Prize lecture (source)
“We may enjoy our room in the tower, with the painted walls and the commodious bookcases, but down in the garden there is a man digging who buried his father this morning, and it is he and his like who live the real life and speak the real language.”—Virginia Woolf, The Common Reader. (1925)
“It is a rainy evening—not at all cold, rather warm, but rainy, rainy. Everything is wet; the river is sopping, and if you stand still a moment you hear the myriad little voices of the rain. As you walk, the air lifts just enough to blow on your cheeks. Ah! how delicious that is! It is not only leaves you smell when you stand under the trees to-day; you smell the black wet boughs and stems, the ‘forest’ smell.”—
“Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.”—Hermann Hesse (via aurai)
“I’m not a girl—I’m a woman. I want things. Shall I ever have them? To write all the morning and then to get lunch over quickly and to write again in the afternoon and have supper and one cigarette together and then to be alone again till bedtime—and all this love and joy that fights for outlet, and all this life drying up, like milk, in an old breast. Oh, I want life! I want friends and people and a house. I want to give and to spend.”—
“I cannot tell you how beautiful this place is by daylight. The trees on the island are in full leaf … I had quite forgotten the life that goes on within a tree—how it flutters and almost plumes itself, and how the topmost branches tremble and the lowest branches of all swing lazy.”—
Each tagged person must post ten things about themselves. You have to choose and tag ten people. Go to their blogs and tell them you tagged them.
No tag backs
1. I live in a small town 2. I’m a feminist (like you!) 3. I am deeply nostalgic for my childhood. 4. I love brilliant female musicians like Tori Amos, Ani Difranco, Courtney Love, Adele, Paula Cole, and so many others. 5. I have a morbid fascination with creative people who have committed suicide, like Plath, Woolf, Sexton, Mark Rothko, Francesca Woodman, and others. 6. I love black and white photography and films 7. I’m obsessed with the Holocaust and other genocides. 8. I need solitude; I am my happiest when I am alone. 9. I am so obsessed with the past that I often feel like I am not living in the present. 10. Often, I feel like I’m never going to find my place in this world. I’ve never had a sense of belonging anywhere.
“All you need now is to stand at the window and let your rhythmical sense open and shut, open and shut, boldly and freely, until one thing melts in another, until the taxis are dancing with the daffodils, until a whole has been made from all these separate fragments.”—
if you could spend tomorrow with any person, dead or alive, who'd it be? :]
That is a difficult question because there are so many people I admire. It’s a tie between three women: Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, and Tori Amos. All of them have affected my life in profound and irrevocable ways. Plath’s poetry electrifies me; Woolf’s writing moves me; and Amos’s music inspires me. They have made me who I am and I would give anything to actually meet and speak to them.
“She became acutely conscious of the little limbs, the thin veins, the delicate flesh of men and women, which breaks so easily and lets the life escape compared with these great trees and deep waters.”—
“There should be a writing of non-writing. Someday it will come. A brief writing, without grammar, a writing of words alone. Words without supporting grammar. Lost. Written, there. And immediately left behind.”—
“Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.”—
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Prof. W. explained to me that there are weightless things. Gravitation for one. It is not material, yet it exists, we feel its pull. So the dead may likewise still exist. Through what they have left behind, through memory, their influence, and so on.
This is no comfort, though, when you howl, yearning for familiar hands, the chest, the one dear body.
I’ve pulled the last of the year’s young onions.
The garden is bare now. The ground is cold,
brown and old. What is left of the day flames
in the maples at the corner of my
eye. I turn, a cardinal vanishes.
By the cellar door, I wash the onions,
then drink from the icy metal spigot.
Once, years back, I walked beside my father
among the windfall pears. I can’t recall
our words. We may have strolled in silence. But
I still see him bend that way—left hand braced
on knee, creaky—to lift and hold to my
eye a rotten pear. In it, a hornet
spun crazily, glazed in slow, glistening juice.
It was my father I saw this morning
waving to me from the trees. I almost
called to him, until I came close enough
to see the shovel, leaning where I had
left it, in the flickering, deep green shade.
White rice steaming, almost done. Sweet green peas
fried in onions. Shrimp braised in sesame
oil and garlic. And my own loneliness.
What more could I, a young man, want.