"The contemplation of celestial things will make a man both speak and think more sublimely and magnificently when he descends to human affairs."

Cicero, c. 30 BCE (via whats-out-there)

(via fuckyeahexistentialism)

Posted 6 days ago
"How slow life is,
How violent hope is."

— Guillaume Apollinaire (via ancient-serpent)

(Source: feuille-d-automne, via brightlywound)

Posted 2 weeks ago
"You stand upon the earth, filled
with teeth and lightning.
You spread kisses and kill the ants.
You weep with health, with onion, with bee,
with burning alphabet.
You are like a blue and green sword
and you ripple when I touch you, like a river."

— excerpt from “Ode with a Lament,” Pablo Neruda (via infinitelull)

Posted 3 weeks ago


Mark Rothko

(Source: mentaltimetraveller, via luellaloves)

"Poetry, the loftiest and the most vulgar, is her mirror; on seeing her image, she enters it, dives deep within her being and becomes a wellspring.
Like the woman who contemplates herself in them, springs are waters of both perdition and life; to see oneself in those waters, to fall into them and remain afloat, is to be born again. Molly is a wellspring, and she talks in an endless soliloquy that is like the inexhaustible murmur of a fountain. And what does she say?
This entire torrent of words is a great yes to life, a yes indifferent to good and evil, a self-regarding, prudent, avid, generous, bounteous, stupid, cosmic yes, a yes of acceptance that in its monotonous flow fuses and confuses past, present, and future, what we were and are and will be, everything and everyone together in a great exclamation like a sea urge that rises, falls, and jumbles all things together in a whole that has no beginning or end:
‘O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the fig trees in the Alameda gardens…"

— A book I just met at the bookstore, something about love and poetry.

Posted 2 months ago
"I liked being the only one who understood her."

— Simone de Beauvoir, from The Mandarins (via violentwavesofemotion)

Posted 2 months ago


earlymodernart:Edgar Degas - Forest in the Mountains, c. 1890

(via infinitelull)

(Source: beatpie, via luellaloves)


The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

-Billy Collins, excerpt from “Forgetfulness”

Posted 3 months ago