A reminder from “notes on romantic attachment”
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.
C. S. Lewis (via amorette)
(via starmaps)
The highest function of the teacher consists not so much in imparting knowledge as in stimulating the pupil in its love and pursuit. To know how to suggest is the art of teaching.
Henri-Frédéric Amiel
Am I dead? Though this question at no time explicitly translates into Should I be dead, eventually the suicide hotline is called. … Fifteen minutes later the doorbell rings. You explain to the ambulance attendant that you had a momentary lapse of happily. The noun, happiness, is a static state of some Platonic ideal you know better than to pursue. Your modifying process had happily or unhappily experienced a momentary pause. This kind of thing happens, perhaps is still happening.
from ”Don’t Let Me Be Lonely [There was a time]” by Claudia Rankine
Anaïs, I don’t know how to tell you what I feel. I live in perpetual expectancy. You come and the time slips away in a dream. It is only when you go that I realize completely your presence. And then it is too late. You numb me.
Henry Miller to Anaïs Nin (via de-licacy)
(Source: larmoyante, via starmaps)
It is not where you are or what you are physically doing in the real world that I am interested in, rather your perceptions of where real life places you in your mind’s landscape; who you are and what you are doing there.
Kymia Nawabi (via builtbylasers)
(via starmaps)
Presumably all obsessions are extreme metaphors waiting to be born.
J. G. Ballard (via theparisreview)
For all its charms, the island is uninhabited,
and the faint footprints scattered on its beaches
turn without exception to the sea.
As if all you can do here is leave
and plunge, never to return, into the depths.
Into unfathomable life.
and the faint footprints scattered on its beaches
turn without exception to the sea.
and plunge, never to return, into the depths.
from “Utopia” by Wislawa Szymborska
1 week ago - 
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I am too alone in the world, and not alone enough to make every minute holy.
I am too tiny in this world, and not tiny enough just to lie before you like a thing,
shrewd and secretive.
I want my own will, and I want simply to be with my will, as it goes toward action,
and in the silent, sometimes hardly moving times when something is coming near,
I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone. …
I want to unfold.
I don’t want to stay folded anywhere, because where I am folded, there I am a lie.
And I want my grasp of things true before you. I want to describe myself like a painting that I looked at closely for a long time, like a saying that I finally understood, like a pitcher I use every day
Rainer Maria Rilke, from “I am too alone in the world, and not alone enough”
1 week ago - 3
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