"My soul wandered, happy, sad, unending."
- .Pablo Neruda, from Thinking, Tangling Shadows (via violentwavesofemotion)
"I could scarcely (even in the cause of vanity) wish you to miss me as much as I miss you, for that hurts too much […]"
- Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vita Sackville-West (via violentwavesofemotion)
This is beautiful.
(Source: awkwardsituationist, via justawkwardme)
"C’est mon cœur que tu fumes."
- Saez (via aurevoir-simone)
"The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink."
- T.S. Eliot (via peterthewebslingerparker)
"I can’t understand it and can’t believe it. I live only here and there in a small word in whose vowel I lose my useless head for a moment. The first and last letters are the beginning and end of my fishlike emotion."
- Franz Kafka, from “Diaries” (via violentwavesofemotion)
"I keep trying to convey something which cannot be conveyed, to explain something which cannot be explained, something in my bones, which can only be experienced in the same bones. In essence it might be nothing more than that fear of the greatest things as well as the smallest, fear, convulsive fear of pronouncing a single word. On the other hand, maybe this fear isn’t simply fear, but also longing for something greater than anything that can aspire fear. Only I am at fault, because there is too little truth on my part, still far too little truth, still mostly lies, lies told out of fear of myself and fear of people. This pitcher was broken long before it went to the well. And now I am keeping my mouth shut in order to stick with the truth a little. Lying is horrible, there is no worse mental agony. Therefore I beg you: let me be silent."
- Franz Kafka, Letters To Milena (via deaths-and-entrances)
(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via sein-wie-ich)