@objetpetita

wishbzne :

“Yes, my strength is in solitude.”

— Clarice Lispector, from The Hour of the Star

weltenwellen :

Susan Sontag, As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh

weltenwellen :

Louise Glück, from “Mutable Earth”, Poems 1962-2012

XII.    
   But the silence is certain. This is why I write. I am alone and I write. No, I am not alone. There is someone here who is trembling.
Alejandra Pizarnik, Paths of the Mirror

davidhudson :

Clarice Lispector, December 10, 1920 – December 9, 1977.

Question:

Fave books u read recently?

Answer:

Clarice Lispector’s Complete Stories

2021 GOAL: Not feel ashamed crying in public when I read fucking awesome books.

heartshop :

Virginia Woolf, The Waves

And then it’s your birthday, and it’s pressure in your chest and stabbings at the back of your head / and then it hits you, how sad and pathetic your needs are / and why the hell you allow these things / why did people let you turn that way /

And how did you allow yourself turn that way.

My point of view is admittedly faulty. My nose is always breathing. I am worn out with breathing. I suspect you have days when you choose not to breathe at all.
Anne Carson, By Chance the Cycladic People

antigonick :

“You’ve punctured my solitude, I told you. It had been a useful solitude […] but the time for puncturing had come. I feel I can give you everything without giving myself away, I whispered in your basement bed. If one does one’s solitude right, this is the prize.”

— Maggie Nelson, The Argonauts

I would flee into the immensity

Of myself,

Already the meadow saffron blooms

In my soul,

Perhaps — it’s too late to turn back!

O, I die with you!

Since I was choked with you.

I wanted threads to encircle me —

Ending confusion!

Undeterred,

Tangled in you,

In order to escape

Into myself!

—Else Lasker-Schüler, Weltflucht

Concept : A cricket chirping outside your balcony on a chilly autumn evening. You’re wrapped in blankets drinking hot chocolate. You enjoy breathing during your hot shower.

pithonas :

I imagine death so much it feels like a memory

To give without investing, to give without expecting anything back / the greatest virtue of all

Santorini, Greece

ampiyas :

Trying to make sense of the kind of freedom and tenderness that can only come from so much loneliness

charlotte ager / sean thomas dougherty / félix vallotton / clarice lispector / beya rebaï / may sarton / maria medem / quint buchholz

“One only needs an island
alone and lost at sea.”

—Mascha Kaléko, Was man so braucht

Listen, I’ll tell you something else: I’d like to die alive, descending into my own tomb and shutting it myself, with a dull thud. And then go mad from pain in the earth’s darkness.
Clarice Lispector, Another Couple of Drunks

“There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights.”
― Bram Stoker, Dracula

“Love is not consolation. It is light.”
― Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace

“My darling, my dying, my light […]”
― Velimir Khlebnikov, Selected Poems

“You’re standing alone at the entrance to the tunnel because you know something I can’t even put a name on, something deeper and more ruthless than I can ever understand. I realize that I can never get closer to that world. I can only long for it, because it is hidden by a light and warmth that I cannot bear. […] If I were to lose you, it would be the unforgivable end of me. Because I know nothing about that unnameable world. Since you are part of it, you mean the world to me. That can never change.”
― Béla Tarr, Kárhozat

inconsollaby :

language as proof of the impossibility of true understanding, language as proof of absurd, inevitable hope.

apocryphics :

Susan Sontag

When Ingeborg Bachmann wrote: “for it is precisely beauty that is more important, beauty which I lack and which I want to seduce. Sometimes I’ll be walking down a street and scarcely do I see someone superior to me than I feel myself being drawn in that direction, but is this natural or normal? Am I woman or something dimorphic? Am I not entirely female—what am I, anyway?”

What I’m talking about has nothing to do with the supposition that there are some men who are good lovers, there really aren’t. That is a legend that has to be destroyed someday, at most there are men with whom it is completely hopeless and a few with whom it’s not quite so hopeless. Although no one has bothered to inquire, that is the reason why only women always have their heads full of feelings and stories, with their man or men. Such thoughts really do consume the greatest part of every woman’s time. But she has to think about it, because without her unflagging pushing and prompting of feelings, she could literally never bear being with a man, since every man truly is sick and hardly takes any notice of her.  It’s easy for him to think so little about women, because his diseased system is infallible, he repeats, he has repeated, he will repeat. If he likes kissing feet, he’ll kiss the feet of fifty more women, why should he risk dwelling on or worrying about a creature who is right now enjoying letting him kiss her feet, at least that’s what he thinks. A woman, however, must come to terms with the fact that now, because her feet happen to have their turn, she has to invent unbelievable feelings and all day long has to shelter her real feeling in the ones she’s invented, on the one hand just to stand the whole business with the feet, but above all to stand the greater part that’s missing, because anyone who’s so hung up on feet is bound to greatly neglecting something else. In addition to this there are sudden readjustments, from one man to another a woman’s body must unlearn everything and once again adapt to something entirely new. But a man simply continues his habits in peace, sometimes that works out, if he’s lucky, mostly it doesn’t.

—Ingeborg Bachmann, Malina

My repressed feelings leak out — slowly in the form of resentment a continual leakage of resentment nevertheless, without the full strength of the feeling present at any given moment to back it up, my resentment lacks backbone. It takes the form of appeal to the other person to clear things up two fundamental needs at war within me: need for the approval of others fear of others
Susan Sontag, from Reborn: “April, 1961” (via intopermanence )

sesiondemadrugada :

Tatu Gustafsson.

Concept: Me, living in Thridrangar Lighthouse in Iceland. I own four wool dresses and no shoes. I forget how people look like and speak in animal language.

Question:

I don't know how to explain, but could you recommend me some quotations (from books or movies etc.) of this "feeling" when you try to reach out words to explain something but they are out of your grasp? Or when you try to explain something but you don't know how to? xx

Answer:

Find some quotes below:

“As soon as we start putting our thoughts into words and sentences everything gets distorted, language is just no damn good—I use it because I have to, but I don’t put any trust in it. We never understand each other.”
― Marcel Duchamp, on Art

“For in spite of language, in spite of intelligence and intuition and sympathy, one can never really communicate anything to anybody.”
― Aldous Huxley, Music at Night

“…there is, with respect to the very structure of language, no proper context to provide proof of a final meaning’ [there is a process of continual deferral]”
― John Lechte, Fifty Key Contemporary Thinkers

“I think we communicate only too well, in our silence, in what is unsaid, and that what takes place is a continual evasion, desperate rearguard attempts to keep ourselves to ourselves. Communication is too alarming. To enter into someone else’s life is too frightening. To disclose to others the poverty within us is too fearsome a possibility.”
―Harold Pinter, Writing for the Theatre

“The effort of explaining, even of expressing himself, had become, with the years, more and more terrifying to him. Whether from laziness or from inability to find the right words, he had developed almost a passion for silence.”
―François Mauriac, Thérèse Desqueyroux

Hope these help!

Question:

I can't stop crying.. How do people dare to be so violent towards each other.. I hate seeing those videos.. To accept the truth that there is any compassion left in the hearts of humans.. How much I wish I could control the world

Answer:

(No need to answer here. There is nothing to add.)

I am the first perfect example of waste—extravagant, ecstatic and incapable of putting the world to any reasonable use, able to show up at the masked ball of society, or stay away like someone who has been detained, or has forgotten how to make a mask, or can no longer find his costume out of carelessness, and so one day will no longer be invited.

—Ingebeorg Bachmann, Malina