One day I will find the right words and they will be simple.
“
| — | Jack Kerouac |
I am tired of knowing nothing and being reminded of it all the time.
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| — | F. Scott Fitzgerald (via hellanne) |
I used to think I was tough, but then I realized I wasn’t. I was fragile and I wore thick fucking armor. And I hurt people so they couldn’t hurt me. And I thought that was what being tough was, but it isn’t.
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| — | James Frey (via hellanne) |
People understand me so poorly that they don’t even understand my complaint about them not understanding me.
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| — | Søren Kierkegaard (via thischarmlessgirl) |
I am interested in language because it wounds or seduces me.
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| — | Roland Barthes, The Pleasure of the Text (via talisman) |
It’s not on paper that you create but in your innards, in the gut and out of living tissue - organic writing I call it. A poem works for me not when it says what I want it to say and not when it evokes what I want it to. It works when the subject I started out with metamorphoses alchemically into a different one, one that has been discovered, or uncovered, by the poem. It works when it surprises me, when it says something I have repressed or pretended not to know. The meaning and worth of my writing is measured by how much I put myself on the line and how much nakedness I achieve.
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| — | Gloria Anzaldúa, ”Speaking in Tongues: A Letter to Third World Women Writers” (via uber-alles) |
Stories of imagination tend to upset those without one.
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| — | Terry Pratchett (via celebrate-the-magic) |
You were just a boy on a bed in a room, like a kaleidoscope is a tube full of bits of broken glass. But the way I saw you was pieces refracting the light, shifting into an infinite universe of flowers and rainbows and insects and planets, magical dividing cells, pictures no one else knew.
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| — | Francesca Lia Block, Wasteland (via souls-entwined) |
Don’t let yourself feel worthless: often through life you will really be at your worst when you seem to think best of yourself; and don’t worry about losing your “personality,” as you persist in calling it: at fifteen you had the radiance of early morning, at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of the moon, and when you are my age you will give out, as I do, the genial golden warmth of 4 p.m.
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| — | F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise (via souls-entwined) |
