“To tell you the truth, in my work, love is always in opposition to the elements. It creates dilemmas. It brings in suffering. We can’t live with it, and we can’t live without it. You’ll rarely find a happy ending in my work.”—Krzysztof Kieślowski (source; adapted from skibinskipedia)
“For now she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of — to think; well, not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.”—Virginia Woolf,To The Lighthouse. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
“Life, the same authorities have decided, has nothing whatever to do with sitting still in a chair and thinking. Thought and life are as the poles asunder.”—Virginia Woolf,Orlando. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
My first day at work down here in LA. Got up, got ready, bought my McDonald’s Iced Mocha, and waiting on my dad to carpool to down town. I am surprised at how hot it is this early in the morning. Ah, good old hot dirty Los Angeles.
“And suddenly you know: that was enough.
You rise and there appears before you
in all its longings and hesitations
the shape of what you lived.”—Rainer Maria Rilke, from “Remembering” (adapted from redcolobus)
“All I ask is to be left alone to moulder away in solitude. It’s obvious that the world’s going as fast as it can to…and all I can do is to sit still and consume as much of my own smoke as possible.”—Virginia Woolf,The Voyage Out. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
The days recede into an infinitesimal crevice, converging on the terrible present. An unimaginable pressure here in my head. Ah, family, the original, quintessential form of slavery; I’ll see you in hell. Here I cry, the freak who looked beyond. These unspoken words will kill us one day. So what’s the problem?
“On my bed at night there is a copy of Shakespeare, a copy of Chaucer, an automatic pistol & a black muslin fan. This is my whole little world.”—Katherine Mansfield, from a letter to Ottoline Morrell, May 1921 (source; via katherine-mansfield)
“ ‘Perhaps’ she said ‘you don’t care for beauty’ But the root of things, what they were all afraid of saying, was that happiness is dirt cheap. You can have it for nothing. Beauty.”—Virginia Woolf,The Man Who Loved His Kind. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
“Things we have felt with great intensity have an existence independent of our minds; are in fact still in existence…I feel that strong emotion must leave its trace.”—Virginia Woolf (via awritersruminations)
“Vanessa sat silent and did something mysterious with her needle or her scissors. I talked, egotistically, excitedly, about my own affairs no doubt. Suddenly the door opened and the long and sinister figure of Mr. Lytton Strachey stood on the threshold. He pointed his finger at a stain on Vanessa’s white dress.
‘Semen?’ he said.
Can one really say it? I thought and we burst out laughing. With that one word all barriers of reticence and reserve went down. A flood of the sacred fluid seemed to overwhelm us. Sex permeated our conversation. … When all intellectual questions had been debated so freely, sex was ignored. Now a flood of light poured in upon that department too. We had known everything but had never talked. Now we talked of nothing else.”—Virginia Woolf, from “Old Bloomsbury,” c. 1921-22 (via proustitute)