“… but intolerant, narrow minds with no imagination are like parasites that transform the host, change form, and continue to thrive. They’re a lost cause, and I don’t want anyone like that coming in here.”— Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami (via bearpolarh)
“When we meet someone and fall in love, we have a sense that the whole universe is on our side. And yet if something goes wrong, there is nothing left! How is it possible for the beauty that was there only minutes before to vanish so quickly? Life moves very fast. It rushes from heaven to hell in a matter of seconds.”—Paulo Coelho, Eleven Minutes (via estincelle)
“I write differently from what I speak, I speak differently from what I think, I think differently from the way I ought to think, and so it all proceeds into deepest darkness.”—Franz Kafka (via estincelle)
“I dream a new blazingly magnificent world which collapses as soon as the light is turned on. A world that vanishes but does not die, for I have only to become still again and stare wide-eyed into darkness and it reappears…. There is then a world in me which is utterly unlike any world I know of. I do not think it is my exclusive property- it is only the angle of my vision which is exclusive, in that it is unique. If I talk the language of my unique vision nobody understands; the most colossal edifice may be reared and yet remain invisible. The thought of that haunts me. What good will it do to make an invisible temple?”—Henry Miller (via thechocolatebrigade)
“As far as history goes I am dead. If there is something beyond I shall have to bounce back. I have found God, but he is insufficient. I am only spiritually dead. Physically I am alive. Morally I am free. The world I have departed is a menagerie. The dawn is breaking on a new world, a jungle world in which the lean spirits roam with sharp claws. If I am a hyena I am a lean and hungry one: I go forth to fatten myself.”—Henry Miller (via thechocolatebrigade)
“She rises up out of a sea of faces and embraces me, embraces me passionately—- a thousand eyes, noses, fingers, legs, bottles, windows, purses, saucers all glaring at us an we in each other’s arm oblivious. I sit down beside her and she talks—- a flood of talk. Wild consumptive notes of hysteria, perversion, leprosy. I hear not a word because she is beautiful and I love her and now I am happy and willing to die.”—Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller (via thechocolatebrigade)
“One of the things I find most offensive about what people say about our music is when they say it’s depressing. The reason I find it offensive is… that—to me—implies that to suffer from depression is like being subnormal, or that it’s a stigma, which it shouldn’t be, because there are an awful lot of people that suffer from depression. And it shouldn’t be like… an ultimate swear word.
I really have a problem with people who dismiss art or music on the grounds that it’s depressing, because a lot of creative power is from that feeling.”—Thom Yorke (via evelinefelice)
“Now is life very solid or very shifting? I am haunted by the two contradictions. This has gone on for ever; will last for ever; goes down to the bottom of the world—this moment I stand on.”—Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 4 January 1929 (via proustitute)
“There’s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death, but the lives people live or don’t live up until their death. They don’t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can’t hear it. Most people’s deaths are a sham. There’s nothing left to die.”—charles bukowski (via hannahmalcrackers)
“This is very important — to take leisure time. Pace is the essence. Without stopping entirely and doing nothing at all for great periods, you’re gonna lose everything…just to do nothing at all, very, very important. And how many people do this in modern society? Very few. That’s why they’re all totally mad, frustrated, angry and hateful.”—Charles Bukowski (via biancabonk)
“I have died too many times believing and waiting, waiting in a room staring at a cracked ceiling waiting for the phone, a letter, a knock, a sound … going wild inside.”—Out of the arms of one love, Charles Bukowski (via machodago2)
“The thought of sitting in front of a man behind a desk and telling him that I wanted a job, that I was qualified for a job, was too much for me. Frankly, I was horrified by life, at what a man had to do simply in order to eat, sleep, and keep himself clothed.”—Charles Bukowski (via brainshit)
“The world is crammed with delightful things. I think young people make such a mistake about that — not letting themselves be happy. I sometimes think that happiness is the only thing that counts.”—Virginia Woolf,The Voyage Out. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
“We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t. We are terrorised and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.”—CHARLES BUKOWSKI. (via thesebrightlights)
“For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald (via zgulliksen)
“There are no decent words to name it, but it is understood that all words name it or, rather, inevitably allude to it, and thus, in conversation I say something or other and the adept smile or become uncomfortable, for they realise I have touched upon the Secret.”—Jorge Luis Borges, from “The Sect of the Phoenix” in Labyrinths (via bookoflead)
“I see men assassinated around me every day. I walk through rooms of the dead, streets of the dead, cities of the dead; men without eyes, men without voices; men with manufactured feelings and standard reactions; men with newspaper brains, television souls and high school ideas.”—Charles Bukowski (via anothersideofchris)
“There is a loneliness in the world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock. People so tired, mutilated either by love or no love. People just are not good to each other one on one. The rich are not good to the rich, the poor are not good to the poor. We are afraid. Our educational system tells us that we can all be big-ass winners. It hasn’t told us about the gutters or the suicides. Or the terror of one person aching in one place alone. Untouched, unspoken to, watering a plant.”—Charles Bukowski, Love is a Dog from Hell (via cttkb)
“It is rescue work, this snatching of vanishing phases of turbulence, disguised in fair words, out of the native obscurity into a light where the struggling forms may be seen, seized upon, endowed with the only possible form of permanence in this world of relative values—the permanence of memory.”—Joseph Conrad, from “Henry James: An Appreciation,” 1905 (via proustitute)
“You don’t know what it means to love that way, do you? You think only of the same face for breakfast every day. I think of how wonderful her face is, how it changes every minute. I never see her twice the same way. I see only an infinity of adoration.”—Henry Miller (via thechocolatebrigade)
I speak to the blank page, to the grand void, the void to which all writers speak, where all words collect and sink into that ethereal otherness, where they fester and mold and eventually crystallize into a lucid life of their own; I speak to the blank page, because I have no one else to speak to.
A good amount of my thoughts are spent musing the lives of ‘normal people’, for example, whether they always have someone to talk to. I don’t know, and am genuinely curious. Can normal people turn and have someone there ready to listen? Can they open up an instant message or text message and transmit whatever comes to mind, regardless of merit, of importance, or logic? Can they speak, heaven forbid, for the mere sake of speaking?
For I am stranded, marooned on the uninhabitable summit of a peerless peak, both miles and ages away from contact. So please never take for granted the ease with which you can communicate with friends, family, strangers even; never forget how that primordial reassurance of consciousness is a mere whisper away for you, because that basic level of social communication is, pathetically enough, far beyond the grasp of some people, like me.
“What birds plunge through is not the intimate space
in which you see all forms intensified.
(Out in the Open, you would be denied
your self would disappear into that vastness.)
Space reaches from us and construes the world:
to know a tree, in its true element,
throw inner space around it, from that pure
abundance in you. Surround it with restraint.
It has no limits. Not till it is held
in your renouncing is it truly there.”—Rainer Maria Rilke, “[What birds plunge through is not an intimate space],” translated by Stephen Mitchell (via fuckyeahrainermariarilke)
“Suddenly, walking down a street, be it real or be it a dream, one realizes for the first time that the years have flown, that all this has passed forever and will live on only in memory; and then the memory turns inward with a strange, clutching brilliance and one goes over these scenes and incidents perpetually, in dream and reverie … suddenly, but always with terrific insistence and always with terrific accuracy, these memories intrude, rise up like ghosts and permeate every fiber of one’s being.”—Henry Miller (via asymmetricsymmetry)
“Well, I’ll take these pages and move on. Things are happening elsewhere. Things are always happening. It seems wherever I go there is drama. People are like lice - they get under your skin and bury themselves there. You scratch and scratch until the blood comes, but you can’t get permanently deloused. Everywhere I go people are making a mess of their lives. Everyone has his private tragedy. It’s in the blood now - misfortune, ennui, grief, suicide. The atmosphere is saturated with disaster, frustration, futility. Scratch and scratch, until there’s no skin left. However, the effect upon me is exhilarating. Instead of being discouraged or depressed, I enjoy it. I am crying for more and more disasters, for bigger calamities, grander failures. I want the whole world to be out of whack, I want every one to scratch himself to death.”—Henry Miller (Tropic of Cancer)