Meng-Tang ChuangPortraits of Library Books, 2013 (via likeafieldmouse)


Elizabeth Perez

When he asked if he was mine, tears in his eyes,
I think he knew what he would do,
what he would have to do,
and he was mourning us.
He was mourning us the whole time.

Emma Forrest, from Your Voice in My Head
We are, as a species, addicted to story. Even when the body goes to sleep, the mind stays up all night, telling itself stories.
Jonathan Gottschall, The Storytelling Animal: How Stories Make Us Human (via mslny)

(Source: revnaomiking)

She had always wanted words, she loved them, grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape. Whereas I thought words bent emotions like sticks in water.
Michael Ondaatje 
Do you know — I hardly remembered you?"
“Hardly remembered me?”
“I mean: how shall I explain it? I — it’s always so. Each time you happen to me all over again.

Edith Wharton, “The Age of Innocence”  (via fuckingcamilla)

(Source: lifeinpoetry)

'Aristotle says in the Poetics,' said Henry, 'that objects such as corpses, painful to view in themselves, can become delightful to contemplate in a work of art.'
‘And I believe Aristotle is correct. After all, what are the scenes in poetry graven on our memories, the ones that we love the most? Precisely these. The murder of Agamemnon and the wrath of Achilles. Dido on the funeral pyre. The daggers of the traitors and Caesar’s blood-remember how Suetonius describes his body being borne away on the litter, with one arm hanging down?’
‘Death is the mother of beauty,’ said Henry.
‘And what is beauty?’
‘Well said,’ said Julian. ‘Beauty is rarely soft or consolatory. Quite the contrary. Genuine beauty is always quite alarming.’
I looked at Camilla, her face bright in the sun, and though of that line from the Iliad I love so much, about Pallas Athene and the terrible eyes shining.
‘And if beauty is terror,’ said Julian, ‘then what is desire? We think we have many desires, but in fact we have only one. What is it?’
‘To live,’ said Camilla.
‘To live forever,’ said Bunny, chin cupped in palm.
The teakettle began to whistle.

Donna Tartt, “The Secret History”  (via mirroir)

(Source: wandering-street-radio)

Without that ache between us, what was I made of?
Kiran Desai
And with each step my heart broke for the person I would never find, the person who’d love me. And then I would remember I had a wife at home who loved me, or later that my wife had left me and I was terrified, or again later that I had a beautiful alcoholic girlfriend who would make me happy forever. But every time I entered the place there were veiled faces promising everything and then clarifying quickly into the dull, the usual, looking up at me and making the same mistake.
Denis Johnson, from Out On Bail
This was another of our fears: that Life wouldn’t turn out to be like Literature.
Julian Barnes
Sometimes I feel like a caretaker of a museum — a huge, empty museum where no one ever comes, and I’m watching over it for no one but myself.
Haruki Murakami, “Norwegian Wood”  (via bokura)

(Source: dedansme)

There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams - not through her own fault but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (via nisanugoo)


“That year, a middle-aged acquaintance asked me what my favorite book was and I said, ‘On The Road.’ He smiled, said, ‘That was my favorite book when I was sixteen.’ At the time, I thought he was patronizing me, that it was going to be my favorite book forever and ever, amen. But he was right. As an adult, I’m more of a Gatsby girl—more tragic, more sad, just as interested in what America costs as what it has to offer.”

— Sarah Vowell