"She wouldn’t say what we both knew. “The reason you will not say it is, when you say it, even to yourself, you will know it is true: is that it? But you know it is true now. I can almost tell you the day when you knew it is true. Why won’t you say it, even to yourself?”"

William Faulkner, from As I Lay Dying 

(Source: faulknerandfieldnotes, via englishmajorinrepair)

"If you evade suffering you also evade the chance of joy. Pleasure you may get, or pleasures, but you will not be fulfilled. You will not know what it is to come home."

― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed (via edwardspoonhands)

"You cross my mind. A lot. More times than I care to admit; you seem to have taken up permanent residence, making your home in the deepest corners of my mind. And sometimes I get caught up in my head, I’ll lose myself in the colour of your eyes — even in my head I’m helpless — and I have to remind myself to breathe."

Julia Pollacco, ‘Inhale, Exhale’  (via pacifism)

(Source: quotedbook, via somethingbitter)

(via englishmajorinrepair)

"Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood."

George Orwell, 1984 (via observando)

(via randymonium)

"The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink."

T.S. Eliot (via larmoyante)

(via finding-nimmo)

"More than putting another man on the moon,
more than a New Year’s resolution of yogurt and yoga,
we need the opportunity to dance
with really exquisite strangers. A slow dance
between the couch and dinning room table, at the end
of the party, while the person we love has gone
to bring the car around
because it’s begun to rain and would break their heart
if any part of us got wet. A slow dance
to bring the evening home, to knock it out of the park. Two people
rocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant.
A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey.
It’s a little like cheating. Your head resting
on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck.
Your hands along her spine. Her hips
unfolding like a cotton napkin
and you begin to think about how all the stars in the sky
are dead. The my body
is talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained Melody,
Stairway to Heaven, power-cord slow dance. All my life
I’ve made mistakes. Small
and cruel. I made my plans.
I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine.
The slow dance doesn’t care. It’s all kindness like children
before they turn four. Like being held in the arms
of my brother. The slow dance of siblings.
Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him,
one of my great loves, he is absolutely human,
and when he turns to dip me
or I step on his foot because we are both leading,
I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer.
The slow dance of what’s to come
and the slow dance of insomnia
pouring across the floor like bath water.
When the woman I’m sleeping with
stands naked in the bathroom,
brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spit
into the sink. There is no one to save us
because there is no need to be saved.
I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowed
the front yard. When the stranger wearing a shear white dress
covered in a million beads
comes toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life,
I take her hand in mine. I spin her out
and bring her in. This is the almond grove
in the dark slow dance.
It is what we should be doing right now. Scrapping
for joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutang slow dance."

Slow Dance, Matthew Dickman (via seafeel)

(via wildflowersinherhair)


"The whole secret and magic of her beauty lay just in these tiny, infinitely elegant movements, in her smile, in the play of her face, in her rapid glances at us, in the combination of the subtle grace of her movements with her youth, her freshness, the purity of her soul that sounded in her laugh and voice, and with the weakness we love so much in children, in birds, in fawns, and in young trees." —Anton Chekhov, The Beauties
(photo by juliettetang)

"The whole secret and magic of her beauty lay just in these tiny, infinitely elegant movements, in her smile, in the play of her face, in her rapid glances at us, in the combination of the subtle grace of her movements with her youth, her freshness, the purity of her soul that sounded in her laugh and voice, and with the weakness we love so much in children, in birds, in fawns, and in young trees." —Anton Chekhov, The Beauties

(photo by juliettetang)

(via englishmajorinrepair)


Sylvia Plath, Mad Girl’s Love Song

Sylvia Plath, Mad Girl’s Love Song

(Source: wildflowers, via englishmajorinrepair)

ebookfriendly:

Read. Travel. Become. http://ebks.to/1bP5OTH

ebookfriendly:

Read. Travel. Become. http://ebks.to/1bP5OTH

(via teachingliteracy)