“I never paid any attention to people who told me to go out and live. I belonged always to whatever was far from me and to whatever I could never be. Anything that was not mine, however base, always seemed to me to be full of poetry. The only thing I ever loved was pure nothingness.”
— Fernando Pessoa (via antigonies)
Athenais by John William Godward (1908)
@aneid / sydney smith / unknown / @bakwaaas / @nutnoce / @dearestvita
I love the idea of jewelry being passed down in a family. The stories that it tells, the bodies that have worn them. I find it so simple yet so pure.
I long for a large room to myself, with books and nothing else, where I can shut myself up, and see no one, and read myself into peace.
Virginia Woolf, Letter to Violet Dickinson
Kurt Vonnegut, from Mother Night; "Chapter Six Hundred & Fourty Three,"
It is the phenomenon sometimes called “alienation from self.” In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the specter of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that answering it becomes out of the question.
Joan Didion, On Self-Respect, 1961.
La Proie du vent (1927)