I am a product of long corridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstairs indoor silences, attics explored in solitude, distant noises of gurgling cisterns and pipes, and the noise of wind under the tiles. Also, of endless books.
The two of us are linked together by the heavy bonds of silence that pass through the wall separating our two worlds. We need each other more than anything, I feel without a doubt.
Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (via alliejoy123)
I hope you’ve been doing well, lovelies. I suppose I’m back. You probably know what that means.
Going to go find cute animal gifs to cheer myself up now.
I learn a great deal by merely observing you, and letting you talk as long as you please, and taking note of what you do not say.
T.S. Eliott (via mermaid-4-life)
(via arianesantos)
Novels, to my mind, are a way to enter into the minds of people. They are a way of condensing worlds. Not necessarily replications of reality, but versions, slices, illuminations.
Sina Queyras, “When Poets Turn To Fiction” (via leopoldgursky)
(Source: poetryfoundation.org, via leopoldgursky)
And if you look a little closer, you’ll see that if a person believes that life is terrible, they’ll constantly look for proof of this, to confirm their view of the world. They’ll find quotes and situations and events in their life and magnify them a hundred times. If a person believes that life is wonderful, they’ll look for the corresponding signage and behave in a similar manner to the previous person with their view of the world. Often, this is the same person on different days of the week.
I Wrote This For You: The Falling Or Rising (via creatingaquietmind)
(Source: anditslove, via creatingaquietmind)
He slept curled against her back, a dark comma against her pale elegant phrase.
A. S. Byatt (via thatkindofwoman)
(Source: avett-druthers, via swansea)
And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter — they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
Sylvia Plath (via canarylungs)
(via eletheowl)
It’s not that I can’t fall in love. It’s really that I can’t help falling in love with too many things all at once So, you must understand why I can’t distinguish between what’s platonic and what isn’t, because it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.
Jack Kerouac (via penseesduchoeur)
(Source: just-likehoney, via athousandbutterflies)
She had an overwhelming desire to tell him, like the most banal of women. Don’t let me go, hold me tight, make me your plaything, your slave, be strong! But they were words she could not say. The only thing she said when he released her from his embrace was, “You don’t know how happy I am to be with you.” That was the most her reserved nature allowed her to express.
Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being (via nicollecamille)
(Source: thesensualstarfish, via ryannjoy)
I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’
Kurt Vonnegut (via lightofsveta)
(Source: the-vee-word, via lutalica)
What is your favorite word?”
“And. It is so hopeful.
“And. It is so hopeful.
“Are you anybody else’s missing piece?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, maybe you want to be your own piece?”
“I can be someone’s and still my own.”— Shel Silverstein, The Missing Piece
(Source: leslieleslie, via brayofmyheart)
