I saw your brown eyes turning once to fire.
a beautiful dream, perhaps, but entirely divorced from life as it is
I saw your brown eyes turning once to fire.
My brother, an alliteratively-named hero in his own right, brought this quote from The Moviegoer back to my attention today. Binx Bolling describes Kate and her self-destructive impulses.
It feels relevant.
— Edgar Allen Poe
I was satisfied with haiku until I met you,
jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry, 5-7-5,
but now I want a Russian novel,
a 50-page description of you sleeping,
another 75 of what you think staring out
a window. I don’t care about the plot
although I suppose there will have to be one,
the usual separation of the lovers, turbulent
seas, danger of decommission in spite
of constant war, time in gulps and glitches
passing, squibs of threnody, a fallen nest,
speckled eggs somehow uncrushed, the sled
outracing the wolves on the steppes, the huge
glittering ball where all that matters
is a kiss at the end of a dark hall.
At dawn the officers ride back to the garrison,
one without a glove, the entire last chapter
about a necklace that couldn’t be worn
inherited by a great-niece
along with the love letters bound in silk.
Apparently St. Vincent fronting Nirvana is everything I never knew I needed.
Happy Friday to me!
and the blue of your eyes,
and the sun, and the minnows
that leaped in the water as though they, too,
wished to hear the story, and the laughter
we laughed together.
Just that, just those, again
those memories, and
gradually fade …
Tell me, are you purposely
And then I think, Perhaps
this is how you slowly habituate
me to the ebbing
of pain? Perhaps,
with remarkable tenderness,
with your persistent
you are preparing me
for it -
for the separation?
Sylvia Plath written in 1949 at age 17. (via antiquedvintage)
True story about omniscience: when my dad was nineteen, a girl refused a second date with him because on their first date, my dad told her he thought he was on the “verge of universal knowledge.”
We Wellses certainly have no grandiosity, nor any complexes about our own intelligence.
— Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey (via observando)
The good guys covering the good guys.
In the aeroplane over the sea.
Sculptor, paramour and assistant to Auguste Rodin. Rodin referred to her as someone unique, a natural rebel, a woman of genius.
Perhaps a sufferer of mental illness or, perhaps, a woman who validly assessed that her brother was forcing her into an institution. From Wikipedia, “There are records to show that while she did have mental outbursts, she was clear-headed while working on her art. Doctors tried to convince the family that she need not be in the institution, but still they kept her there.
On 7 September 1914 Camille was transferred with a number of other women, to the Montdevergues Asylum[…] Her certificate of admittance to Montdevergues was signed on 22 September 1914; it reported that she suffered “from a systematic persecution delirium mostly based upon false interpretations and imagination”.
For a while, the press accused her family of committing a sculptor of genius. Her mother forbade her to receive mail from anyone other than her brother. The hospital staff regularly proposed to her family that Claudel be released, but her mother adamantly refused each time. On 1 June 1920, physician Dr. Brunet sent a letter advising her mother to try to reintegrate her daughter into the family environment. Nothing came of this.
Paul Claudel visited her every few years, though he referred to her in the past tense. In 1929 Jessie Lipscomb visited her and insisted “it was not true” that Claudel was insane. Rodin’s friend, Mathias Morhardt, insisted that Paul was a “simpleton” who had “shut away” his sister of genius.
Camille Claudel died on 19 October 1943, after having lived 30 years in the asylum at Montfavet[…] Her remains were buried in a communal grave at the asylum.”
when country music and driving songs start sneaking onto my starred playlist. It’s because I want to get in my car and drive through Tate’s Hell to the Gulf, never to be seen again. I will be one of those locals who lives in a panhandle or barrier island resort town and you will think, how did this interesting person end up here with this life? And it will be because a swampy Southern song and my own impulses coerced me to drive to Florida and disappear into the Forgotten Coast. See you in Franklin County in forty years.
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise (via fitzgeraldquotes)
1. Y Control - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
"I WISH I COULD BUY BACK/THE WOMAN YOU STOLE!"
2. Head - Lydia Loveless
"HONEY, GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES!"
3. Mother’s Day - Ezra Furman & The Harpoons
Opening line, “Hello! This song is called Mother’s Day, it’s about a whore that I knew in Chicago! Here it goes, goes, one… two… ONETWOTHREEFOUR!”
Bonus: Closing line, “FUCK!”
4. Bad Romance - Lady Gaga
"I’M A FREE BITCH, BABY!"
Bonus: “I DON’T WANNA BE FRIENDS!”
5. Oh Lord - Foxy Shazam
Opening line, “YEAH, JULIAN!”
Bonus: “GOD KNOWS I’VE HAD SOME ROUGH FUCKING YEARS!”
Double bonus: The whole song.
Tell me your go-to sing/yell-a-long song.
— Epicetus, who apparently was the first practitioner of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.
— Zelda to Scott, 1931 (via fitzgeraldquotes)