“I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.”—Anaïs Nin (via anaees)
“This is the push of all strayed things into night
the heavying of trees against sky-fire
stolen into a river, cloistered down
I do not want anything more than this taking
of last light into pocketings and loose garments
unbearable closets of the trees
the stitched-in bones and the placketings
This feeling of everything unhanded
suddenly let go into robes
The half-bustled willow rails forward
The still surface. The quieted surface.
The same sharp planets exacting there”—Emily Wilson, from “Winter Journal: Gold Rivulet Weave, Gauded” (via proustitute)
“… I envisaged the future of socalled mankind as a permanent pastlessness, prenatally enveloping semiidentical supersubmorons in perpetual nonunhappiness. Rightly or wrongly, however, I prefer spiritual insomnia to psychic suicide. The hellless hell of compulsory heaven-on-earth emphatically isn’t my pail of blueberries.”—
e. e. cummings, from i: six nonlectures, 1953 (via proustitute)
File under: Phrases That Have Been Running Through My Head For a Week. I keep mentally referring to things as emphatically not my pail of blueberries.
“If you dedicate your existence to being likable, however, and if you adopt whatever cool persona is necessary to make it happen, it suggests that you’ve despaired of being loved for who you really are. And if you succeed in manipulating other people into liking you, it will be hard not to feel, at some level, contempt for those people, because they’ve fallen for your shtick.”—Jonathan Franzen (via realrealsoft) (via peterwknox)
Yesterday, Luci first posted about Banana’s collaboration with Mad Men costume designer, Janie Bryant. Today, InStyle posted the pictures of the collection (which hits stores August 11). I want EVERYTHING.
“I think that at last you would understand.
There would be nothing more to say.
You would love me because I should have strangled you
And because of my infamy;
And I should love you the more because I mangled you
And because you were no longer beautiful
To anyone but me.”—T. S. Eliot, from “The Love Song of St. Sebastian,” in Inventions of the March Hare: Poems, 1909-17 (via proustitute)
“Socializing is as exhausting as giving blood. People assume we loners are misanthropes just sitting thinking, ‘Oh, people are such a bunch of assholes,’ but it’s really not like that. We just have a smaller tolerance for what it takes to be with others. It means having to perform. I get so tired of communicating.”—Anneli Rufus (via sore-thumbelina:pearldream)
“Sit down. Inhale. Exhale.
The gun will wait. The lake will wait.
The tall gall in the small seductive vial
will wait will wait:
will wait a week: will wait through April.
You do not have to die this certain day.
Death will abide, will pamper your postponement.
I assure you death will wait. Death hasa lot of time. Death canattend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is
just down the street; is most obliging neighbor;
can meet you any moment.
You need not die today.
Stay here—through pout or pain or peskyness.
Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow.
Graves grow no green that you can use.
Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.”—
“I felt like crying but nothing came out. It was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad, when you can’t feel any worse. I think you know it. I think everybody knows it now and then. But I think I have known it pretty often, too often.”—Charles Bukowski (via blua)
I went to bed red-eyed, the lump in my throat still not fully dissolved. I woke up with a sore throat and itchy red welts covering the tops my feet, as if my own frustration began attacking my body in the night, clawing at me from the inside out.
I feel like a walking to-do list, blushing with insecurities of my uncrossed words. I feel like I did when I was fourteen and sick to death of myself. I feel like the torn out pages of four diaries, the absence of confessions, the embarrassment of unshareable words. Even blank pages can’t be trusted. This is what it means to be dangerous.
Yesterday there was a flood at work and water poured down the walls for more than ten stories. I watched the walls bubble and bloat. I touched one and it burst. Everything knows what it feels like to have a breaking point.
Anne Sexton called it “the almost unnameable lust.”
The desire to break all of the bones in your own body.
The seduction of windows and rooftops and balconies. The need to fling yourself, entirely. To break glasses. To slap strangers. To scratch out of your own skin. To drink. To drink wine and whiskey. To forget. To toss everything into a bag and throw it away. To shut the fuck up. To stop crying your heart out. To stop. To end the combat, finally, finally.
“It is words that are to blame. They are the wildest, freest, most irresponsible, most un-teachable of all things. Of course, you can catch them and sort them and place them in alphabetical order in dictionaries. But words do not live in dictionaries; they live in the mind.”—Virginia Woolf (via souvrir)