“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.”—Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar (via sharonaileen)
He never found it. Of a stone, a leaf an unfound door…and of all the forgotten faces, the dark hungering passion in those sad eyes never became full. He never found it, and remained forever a stranger and alone.
“I am, of all who were ever born, the most inclined to love persons. Whenever I behold someone who possesses any talent or displays any dexterity of mind, who can do or say something more appropriately than the rest of the world, I am compelled to fall in love with him, and then I give myself away to him so entirely that I am no longer my own property, but wholly his.”—Michelangelo, quote found in Theodore Zeldin’s An Intimate History of Humanity (via malevichsquare)
“To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget.”—Arundhati Roy (via foreverahimsa)
“And left alone to sleep within a shuttered room, with the thick sunlight printed in bars upon the floor, unfathomable loneliness and sadness crept through him: he saw his life down the solemn vista of a forest aisle, and he knew he would always be the sad one: caged in that little round of skull, imprisoned in that beating and most secret heart, his life must always walk down lonely passages. Lost. He understood that men were forever strangers to one another, that no one ever comes really to know any one, that imprisoned in the dark womb of our mother, we come to life without having seen her face, that we are given to her arms a stranger, and that, caught in that insoluble prison of being, we escape it never, no matter what arms may clasp us, what mouth may kiss us, what heart may warm us. Never, never, never, never, never.”—Thomas Wolfe ”Look Homeward, Angel” (via kibasnow)
“I have found the constant, everlasting weather of man’s life to be, not love, but loneliness. Love itself is not the weather of our lives. It is the rare, the precious flower. Sometimes it is the flower that gives us life, that breaches the dark walls of all our loneliness and restores us to the fellowship of life, the family of the earth, the brotherhood of man. But sometimes love is the flower that brings us death; and from it we get pain and darkness; and the mutilations of the soul, the madenning of the brain, may be in it.
How or why or in what way the flower of love will come to us, whether with life or death, triumph or defeat, joy or madness, no man on this earth can say. But I know that at the end, forever at the end for us - the houseless, homeless, doorless, driven wanderers of life, the lonely men - there waits forever the dark visage of our comrade, Loneliness.”—Thomas Wolfe (via burnjoyfully)
“i will remember the kisses our lips raw with love and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me, and I will remember your small room the feel of you the light in the window your records your books our morning coffee our noons our nights our bodies spilled together sleeping the tiny flowing currents immediate and forever your leg my leg your arm my arm your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.”
“I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, “Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”—ernest hemingway (via ethaney)
“Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.”—Franz Kafka (via myquotelibrary)
All suffering is universal. Time and history devour us but shed light. Everyone is innocent in their own eyes, just look at them. Arrogence belongs to everyone, otherwise we wouldn’t have Jesus and Buddah to look up to. Their secret was being humble, and genius-such a thing can never exist.