The Native Men Are Seen Wearing Small Loin Cloths and Carrying Bows and Arrows
Virginia Woolf’s bedroom at Monk’s House by Anthony R.
She’s like smoke: you think you’re seeing her clearly enough, but when you reach for her there’s nothing there.
Ryū Murakami (via petrichour)
I want to see more girl monsters. Girl giants, girl dragons, hulks & trolls. Scylla and hydra. Girl monsters who are huge and whole. Teeth and plush fur and long muscled tails. Heads enough to see you anywhere. Gleaming green or brown. But girl monsters are usually zombies or vampires. Pale and thin, bleeding or dead. Not Lady Lazarus, not a phoenix from the ash. I want to see how you get strong without being broken first. Get strong and stay strong. Get big and bigger.
Poetry can unleash a terrible fear. I suppose it is the fear of possibilities, too many possibilities, each with its own endless set of variations. It’s like looking too closely and too long into a mirror; soon your features distort, then erupt. You look too closely into your poems, or listen too closely to them as they arrive in whispers, and the features inside you - call it heart, call it mind, call it soul - accelerate out of control. They distort and they erupt, and it is one strange pain. You realize, then, that you can’t attempt breaking down too many barriers in too short a time, because there are as many horrors waiting to get in at you as there are parts of yourself pushing to break out, and with the same, or more, fevered determination.
Jim Carroll, Forced Entries: The Downtown Diaries 1971-1973 (via litverve)
For the philosopher is right who says that nothing thicker than a knife’s blade separates happiness from melancholy…
Virginia Woolf, Orlando. (via petrichour)
nouvelle-nouveau
