— Emil Cioran (via ig-narus)
The lake was still the sheep on the island reflected in the water, like they grey deer we saw in Gowbarrow park. —Dorothy Wordsworth, 04.17.1802
— Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves (via crematedadolescent)
— Hermann Hesse, Magister Ludi (The Glass Bead Game)
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing."
— T.S. Eliot, from “East Coker” (via liquidnight)
— S. Zizek (via alterities)
… [A]s if they had tasted a string quartet, or been, for a moment, deafened by the sight of the colour blue.
© Susanna Clarke, ‘Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell’, pg 133 (Bloomsbury Publishing, 2005)
— Alvaro Mutis (via jacobwren)
— Federico Garcia Lorca (via fawksianfella)
by unequal languages, at Silence."
— Pablo Neruda, from “Still Another Day: XVII/Men” (via litverve)
In the morning, you tear up the pages of your fever, but every word naturally leads you back to its color, its night.
—Edmond Jabès,from “Aely,” The Book of Questions II, trans. Rosmarie Waldrop (Wesleyan, 1991)