a.l.

Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.

Je t’aime trop pour te laisser croire que je pourrais me passer de toi. Que tu me trompes, je m’en fous. Tant que tu as la sincérité de me le dire. Que tu me caches, je m’en fous, tant que tu viens me retrouver même pour une minute, même pour une seconde. La patience me va, et en t’attendant c’est tout ton corps que je récite par coeur, tes bras si doux, tes lèvres, l’odeur de tes cheveux. Et tes genoux. Dire que même de tes genoux, je suis amoureuse.

—La Belle Personne  (via prettypeachpeonies)

(Source: la-folle-francophile, via prettypeachpeonies)


Franz Kafka’s signature in a letter to Milena Jesenská, July 29, 1920.

Franz wrong,  F  wrong, Yours wrongnothing more, calm, deep forest
Franz Kafka’s signature in a letter to Milena Jesenská, July 29, 1920.
Franz wrong,  F  wrong, Yours wrong
nothing more, calm, deep forest

(Source: bellswithin, via thepedigreeofhoney)

I don’t ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside me there’ll always be the person I am tonight.

Tender Is the Night -F Scott. Fitzgerald

cnudeireoil:


"That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory:
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm."-- T S Eliot, excerpt from "East Coker"

cnudeireoil:

"That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory:
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm."


-- T S Eliot, excerpt from "East Coker"

(via cnudeireoil-deactivated20131106)

starman: Spleen (1910)

you-remind-me-ofthe-babe:

Sunday: this satisfied procession
Of definite Sunday faces;
Bonnets, silk hats, and conscious graces
In repetition that displaces
Your mental self-possession
By this unwarranted digression.

Evening, lights, and tea!
Children and cats in the alley;
Dejection unable to rally
Against this…

(Source: naked--lunch)