There are no new things to tell about human beings, only new ways of telling them
John Banville (via iwilltellastory)
Where I went, no one could follow. Yet someone managed to hold my hand.
John Banville (via air-and-angels)
You started out
as a curious traveler inside the
turbulent blood-source
of my body.
You inhabited the first vein.
You moved on to the main
heart artery.
Then you became
my very own
blood.
Frida Kahlo, The Diary Of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait (via wingspan)
(via how-to-fall)
Oniisama e…, episode 12: “The Scar”
My real self wanders elsewhere, far away, wanders on and on invisibly and has nothing to do with my life.
Why must one talk? Often one shouldn’t talk, but live in silence. The more one talks, the less the words mean.
Jean-Luc Godard, La Nouvelle Vague (via coffeeinteapots)
(via coffeeinteapots)
When you start to think of the arts as not this thing that is going to get you somewhere in terms of becoming an artist or becoming famous or whatever it is that people do, but rather a way of making being in the world not just bearable, but fascinating, then it starts to get interesting again.
Judging the mistakes of strangers is an easy thing to do - and it feels pretty good.
Sputnik Sweetheart (via harukimurakami)
whenever i am out somewhere there is a 99% chance i am thinking about going home and sleeping
(via brokenmachine)
“Words bother me. I think it is why I am a poet. I keep trying to force myself to speak of the things that remain mute inside. My poems only come when I have almost lost the ability to utter a word. To speak, in a way, of the unspeakable. To make an object out of the chaos … To say what? A final cry into the void.”
—Anne Sexton, from a letter to Dennis Farrell, August 2, 1963
(via apoetreflects)
She wished to kiss him. But all the time she went on spinning out words.
Virginia Woolf, from The Voyage Out (via violentwavesofemotion)
Georgine Ingold. Self-portrait Nº 30, 2011. Oil on cotton, 27 1/8 x 15 3/4”.
