“I want to sleep with you – to fall asleep and to sleep… Simply – sleep. And nothing further. No, also: to burrow my head into your left shoulder, my arm on your right shoulder – and nothing further. No, also: to know even in the deepest sleep that it is you. And also: to hear how your heart resounds. And – to kiss your heart.”
— - Marina Tsvetaeva, from a letter to Rainer Maria Rilke (via syntaxonomy)
— Mihail Sebastian, For Two Thousand Years (trans. Philip Ó Ceallaigh)/ — Robert Frost, The Complete Poems; “My November Guest,”/ — Ellis Nightingale/ — Mary Shelley, Frankenstein, or, The Modern Prometheus, chapter V. / — Mihail Sebastian, For Two Thousand Years (trans. Philip Ó Ceallaigh)/ — Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait Through Letters/ — Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex/ Albert Camus , “The Plague”/ — Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights/ — William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
me: you’ve already used this exact turn of phrase two paragraphs ago, that’s too repetitive
me, an intellectual: if I use it three more times it becomes a motif
Angela Carter, “Black Venus”, Black Venus
[Text ID: “Sad; so sad, those smoky-rose, smoky-mauve evenings of late autumn, sad enough to pierce the heart.”]
Yet again forced to sit my wife’s son down and make him destroy his minecraft enchantment table and redstone piston doors and lights. He’s crying inconsolably the whole time despite my incisive breakdowns of the industrial society’s teliological and extractive greed and my warnings against Seinsverlassenheit. Now we are building a massive stone temple complex to the awe of being (in Minecratf), trying to ease him into a state of philosophical releasement and authenticity but he just keeps telling me he hates me, tears and snot streaking his face. He has no ontological humility or dread of his own death and doesn’t speak a word of Greek, I don’t know what the hell they’re teaching him at montessori school
“The universal sleep is hugged by black. A comfortable, warm black. This is no cold black, it is against this black that the rainbow shines like the stars. […] It never rained in the House of Sleep. Did Iris light her way in the darkness? Did Morpheus dream of the rainbow at his bedside? Black is boundless, the imagination races in the dark. Vivid dreams careering through the night. Goya’s bats with goblin faces chuckle in the dark. In the black coal fire lives the spirit of storytelling. Flickering blue and scarlet flames. It was around the fire at night that men and women told their stories in the pitchy black. Black Sabbaths.”
— Derek Jarman, Chroma: A Book of Color
A certain critic -- for such men, I regret to say, do exist -- made the nasty remark about my last novel that it contained 'all the old Wodehouse characters under different names.' He has probably by now been eaten by bears, like the children who made mock of the prophet Elisha: but if he still survives he will not be able to make a similar charge against Summer Lightning. With my superior intelligence, I have out-generalled the man this time by putting in all the old Wodehouse characters under the same names. Pretty silly it will make him feel, I rather fancy.
P. G. Wodehouse
autumn is really like. i brought you some sunlight from when you were 10. didn't the world feel so bright to you then? i'll drench your hands in syrupy nostalgia, so everything you make is stained bittersweet. i'll ruffle your hair with an ice-kissed breeze--it'll be the kindest touch you've had in years. you finally feel like a part of something grander. i'm the last warm hand you hold before winter surrender.
