She had such a thirst for destruction,
Marcel Proust, from The Complete Works; “In Search of Lost Time,”
Etikett: quote
“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
—Come and help me. I am disappearing.
Gunnar Ekelöf, tr. by Robert Bly, from “Monologue With His Wife,”
I will not exist without your love and loveliness, darling,
Dylan Thomas, from a letter to Caitlin Thomas wr. c. September 1940
My angel, keep inside you, your heart’s garden. Keep it distinct and holy.
Zeb-un-Nissa, tr. by Paul Smith, from “Makhfi: A Selection of Poems,”
I wandered in a lonely place; my soul’s great thirst tormented me –
Alexander Pushkin, tr. by Anthony Wood, from “The Prophet,”
I’m a double of myself, one half a doll that was spared, one half dead.
Mary Jo Bang, from A Doll for Throwing: Poems; “Of Mannequins and Building Exteriors,”
Her eyes are like velvet, the way only dark eyes can be, hers now are a mixture of still water and silt, revealing nothing at present except a kind of drowsy sweetness.
Marguerite Duras, from “The Ravishing of Lol Stein,” published c. 1964
beberequin 