-
High Resolution(Source: in0culation, via empty-carousel)
-
High Resolution(Source: the-host)
-
Name: I Am a Rock
Artist: Simon and Garfunkel
Album: The Sounds of Silence
(Source: kdo)
-
(Source: arcanja, via 27horcruxes)
-
High Resolution(via avett-druthers)
-
High Resolution(via stakhanovite)
-
"
She stood against the wall. “Owen,” she said. “Owen.” He did not answer her. He wept the way the Watergate conspirators had wept at their trials.
“Owen,” she said. He wept and did not answer. She touched his shoulder. His back was tense as a board.
She had no idea what to say, what to do. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him cry before. “Owen,” she said, faltering, clumsy, “I know this is hard, but really, sweetheart, it’ll be okay. He’s a good boy. He’ll take care of himself. He said so himself; it doesn’t have to be the end of the world.” But at those words Owen only wept more, louder and louder, as if there was nothing that could console him.
And now, very softly, she thought she heard him say, “It is the end of the world.”
"- David Leavitt, from The Lost Language of Cranes -
"There were five of us that morning, I don’t remember where the others were. Perhaps it was a weekend when only five of us had come down to the hotel. Paul carried the rifle, looking every inch a sportsman and smiling at himself in this role. Jimmy was beside him, clumsy, fattish, pale, his intelligent eyes returning always to Paul, humble with desire, ironical with pain at his situation. I, Willi and Maryrose came along behind. Willi carried a book. Maryrose and I wore holiday clothes-coloured dungarees and shirts. Maryrose wore blue dungarees and a rose-coloured shirt. I wore rose dungarees and a white shirt."
- Doris Lessing, The Golden Notebook -
"Words. Words. I play with words, hoping that some combination, even a chance combination, will say what I want. Perhaps better with music? But music attacks my inner ear like an antagonist, it’s not my world. The fact is, the real experience can’t be described. I think, bitterly, that a row of asterisks, like an old-fashioned novel, might be better. Or a symbol of some kind, a circle perhaps, or a square. Anything at all, but not words. The people who have been there, in the place in themselves where words, patterns, order, dissolve, will know what I mean and others won’t. But once having been there, there’s a terrible irony, a terrible shrug of the shoulders, and it’s not a question of fighting it, or disowning it, or of right or wrong, but simply knowing it is there, always. It’s a question of bowing to it, so to speak, with a kind of courtesy, as to an ancient enemy: All right, I know you are there, but we have to preserve the forms, don’t we? And perhaps the condition of your existing at all is precisely that we preserve the forms, create the patterns - have you thought of that?"
- Doris Lessing, The Golden Notebook (via prehistoric-fool) -
"Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood."
- George Orwell, 1984 (via dystopia0)
songs to survive the summer
Longing, we say, because desire is full of endless distances. - Robert Hass
ask
