Your own black mind you shall fight the most.
Edith Södergran, from Poems, 1916; “Advice”
Etikett: poetry
She always looked divinely frail and beautiful and regal.
Tarquin Olivier, describing Vivien Leigh, from “Vivien Leigh: A Biography,”
“Behave, my Sorrow! let’s have no more scenes.”
— Charles Baudelaire, from “Meditation,” Les Fleurs Du Mal (David R. Godine, 1985)
What is it that brings on these moods of yours? Nothing mysterious: the ordinary pain of being alive.
“There’s something soft in me— / we killed it and it’s rotting.”
— Cassandra de Alba, from “A Barbie Dream House But All the Dolls Are Kitchen Knives,” published in Underblong (via weltenwellen)
I looked for love in things that were not love.
Florence Welch, referring to what inspired her to write the song “Hunger,”
She had such a thirst for destruction,
Marcel Proust, from The Complete Works; “In Search of Lost Time,”
“I’m not the girl your mother warns you about.
I won’t kiss your best friend or break your heart.
I won’t make you choose between what you love to do & me.
I’m not cold. I’m not reckless. I’m the girl your father mentions when your mom’s not around.
I’m the girl that gets away. I will love you more than anything.
I will kiss you when you cry.
I will stand by your side until you decide otherwise. And you’re just like your father, so you will. You’ll let me go & I won’t look back,
But you will.
I promise you, you will. I’m that girl.”— (via queer-lust)
“When the child was a child, it was the time of these questions. Why am I me, and why not you? Why am I here, and why not there? When did time begin, and where does space end? Isn’t life under the sun just a dream? Isn’t what I see, hear, and smell just the mirage of a world before the world? Does evil actually exist, and are there people who are really evil? How can it be that I, who am I, wasn’t before I was, and that sometime I, the one I am, no longer will be the one I am?”
— Wings of Desire (1987)
“I used to imagine adventures for myself, I invented a life, so that I could at least exist somehow.”
— Fyodor Dostoyevsky
beberequin 