poetry – Sida 10 – beberequin

A crown of kisses to the queen of dreams.

Albert Camus, from a letter to María Casares written c. August 1951

“I’m sick of it I’m sick of it sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick.”

Simone de Beauvoir, from “The Woman Destroyed,” published c. 1967

I am a woman held fast now in a great silence. / Not all creatures have your need for words.

Czesław Miłosz, from New and Collected Poems; “A Mirrored Gallery”

But for how long? For ever?

Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vita Sackville-West wr. c. October 1925

Of course, she must be sleeping, sleeping deeply, wrapped in the darkness of that strange little world of hers.

Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

thelovejournals:

“Amputees suffer pains, cramps, itches in the leg that are no longer there. That is how she felt without him, feeling his presence where he no longer was.”

— Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

She had a long and narrow evening dress of lace. It fit perfectly her narrow waist; it matched her young, black eyes. When she wore it she was so mysterious, so unaware of her beauty.

Ivan Bunin, from The Collected Short Stories; “Late Hour,” wr. c. 1933

thelovejournals:

“When she needed help most, she was abandoned—and only when she offered help to others was she beloved.”

— Matthew Quick, The Silver Linings Playbook

bebemoon:

“(She had the sea within her soul, continuously.)”

— Salvatore Quasimodo, tr. by Manolis Aligizakis, from “The Tall Schooner,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

seaymph:

“Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.”

— Sylvia Plath (journals)