What art thou but a Meteor’s glaring light— Blazing a moment and then sunk in...– Samuel Taylor Coleridge, from “Honor” (via aubade)
And is love then more Than the kick galvanic Or the thundering roar Of Ash...– A. S. Byatt as Randolph Henry Ash, from Possession (via aubade)
Everyone in me is a bird. I am beating all my wings.– Anne Sexton (via aubade)
These words are like glass splinters, which you can hurt yourself with, or cut...– Yehuda Amichai, from “Letter” (via aubade)
All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creak’d; The blue...– Lord Alfred Tennyson, from “Mariana” (via aubade)
“An ivory labyrinth!” I exclaimed. “A tiny labyrinth.” “A labyrinth of...– Jorge Luis Borges, from “The Garden of Forking Paths” (via touba)
Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor you: But when the leaves hang trembling,...– Christina Rosetti, “Who Has Seen the Wind” (via aubade)
The taste for books was an early one. As a child he was sometimes found at...– Virginia Woolf, Orlando (via contrive)
I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert… Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed: And on...
Good Husbands Make Unhappy Wives
Good husbands make unhappy wives so do bad husbands, just as often; but the unhappiness of a wife with a good husband is much more devastating than the unhappiness of a wife with a bad husband. —by D H Lawrence
The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the...– Friedrich Nietzsche (via bluesiren) (via benjaminhilts) (via dreamofwhatcanbe) (via dameauxcamelias) (via mymetanoia) (via journalofanobody) (via workman)
We Are Transmitters
As we live, we are transmitters of life. And if we fail to transmit life, life fails to flow through us. That is part of the mystery of sex, it is a flow onwards. Sexless people transmit nothing. And if, as we work, we can transmit life into our work, life, still more life, rushes into us to compensate, to be ready and we ripple with life through the days. Even if it is a woman...
Whatever Man Makes
Whatever man makes and makes it live lives because of the life put into it. A yard of India muslin is alive with Hindu life. And a Navajo woman, weaving her rug in the pattern of her dream must run the pattern out in a little break at the end so that her soul can come out, back to her. But in the odd pattern, like snake-marks on the sand it leaves its trial. —by D H Lawrence