(Source: noseinabook)
The joy of being alone, eating the honey of words.
— Robert Bly, in “Morning Poems” (with thanks to mitochondria)
The easiest thing to feel is sadness.
— Justin Vernon (via filletteenbleu)
home library (via Wednesday House Sampler | Old House Dreams)
From so much loving and journeying, books emerge.
And if they don’t contain kisses or landscapes,
if they don’t contain a man with his hands full,
if they don’t contain a woman in every drop,
hunger, desire, anger, roads,
they are no use as a shield or a bell:
they have no eyes, and won’t be able to open them,
they have the dead sound of precepts.I loved the entangling of flesh,
and out of blood and love I carved my poems.
In hard earth I brought a rose to flower,
fought over by fire and dew.That’s how I could keep on singing.
— Pablo Neruda, “Ars Magnetica”, trans. Alastair Reid (with thanks to Love Is A Place)
There are so many fragile things, after all. People break so easily, and so do dreams and hearts.
— Neil Gaiman (via johnsteinbeck-)
(Source: kari-shma)
(Source: bookshelves)
But I admired her because didn’t fight, because she retreated into her word of half lights and shadows. She was never defeated because she never gave battle.
— Agatha Christie, Five Little Pigs (p 45)
(Source: teethequoter)
Most men and women lead lives at the worst so painful, at the best so monotonous, poor and limited that the urge to escape, the longing to transcend themselves if only for a few moments, is and has always been one of the principal appetites of the soul.
This was another of our fears: that Life wouldn’t turn out to be like Literature.
— Julian Barnes; The Sense of an Ending (via wordpainting)
red on top (by Shawna Lemay)
(by jessicacelebre)
Allan Banks
