He was not dead yet, not exactly— parts of him were dead already, certainly other parts were still only waiting for something to happen, something grand, but it isn't always about me, he keeps saying, though he's talking about the only heart he knows— He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There's a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place— well then, game over.
“Bless me,” he said. I blessed him, not really knowing what I was doing. I asked him to do the same, and he did, saying, “blessed be this woman, who has loved much.” They were beautiful words, and we embraced again and stayed there, unable to understand how eleven minutes could carry a man and a woman so far.
Neither of us was tired. We went into the living room, he put on a record and did exactly as I had hoped: he lit the fire and poured me some wine. Then he opened a
book and read:
Neither of us was tired. We went into the living room, he put on a record and did exactly as I had hoped: he lit the fire and poured me some wine. Then he opened a
book and read:
Words lost on the wind. But I needed to hear them, and he needed to say them. I fell asleep, although I don’t know when. I dreamed, not of a situation or of a person, but of a perfume that flooded the air.
Forwarded from Wild (buttercup)
She said that was the only way for us to live, to be like the poets. That's what she said. If all you ever see is reality, you just want to die.
what can you do, against the lunatic who is more intelligent than yourself, who gives your arguments a fair hearing then simply persists in his lunacy?
Forwarded from myweirdobsessions
'I often stood in front of the mirror alone, wondering how ugly a person could get.'
Windmill or no windmill, he said, life would go on
as it had always gone on — that is, badly.
as it had always gone on — that is, badly.
Forwarded from Trojan women (🧚♀️ persie 🧚♀️)
"I'm not sentimental -- I'm as romantic as you are. The idea, you know, is that the sentimental person thinks things will last -- the romantic person has a desperate confidence that they won't. "
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, this side of paradise 1920
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, this side of paradise 1920
You teach me now how cruel you’ve been – cruel and false. Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort – you deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears. They’ll blight you – they’ll damn you. You loved me – then what right had you to leave me? What right – answer me – for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery, and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart – you have broken it – and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me, that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you – oh God! would you like to live with your soul in the grave?
Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world, I feel like I can't take it. and my heart is just going to cave in.