The Latest

I knew who I was this morning, but I’ve changed a few times since then.
 Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass  (via larmoyante)

(via theoblivionist)

Apr 15, 2014 / 13,389 notes
It’s all messed up:
The hair.
The bed.
The words.
The heart.
William Leal.    (via retratou)

(via theoblivionist)

Apr 15, 2014 / 328,741 notes
The Japanese say you have three faces.
The first face, you show to the world. The second face, you show to your close friends, and your family.
The third face, you never show anyone. It is the truest reflection of who you are.
(via bonus)

(via malvix0)

Apr 15, 2014 / 316,839 notes
Apr 14, 2014 / 227,294 notes
When you feel you have lost everything, you still have
  • books
  • unexpected kindness in strangers
  • the rest of the world to travel
  • languages to learn
  • animals to take care of
  • volunteer work to do
  • the power of a good night’s rest
  • the changing of seasons
  • infinite things to learn
  • billions of people to meet and possibly love
  • billions of people who might love you back


Rainy days.



(via theoblivionist)

I feel strong. Not strong enough to face myself, but strong enough to keep going.
James Frey, A Million Little Pieces (via likeanoldstory)

And sometimes that strength is enough.

(via theoblivionist)

Apr 14, 2014 / 3,184 notes
When you’re a young writer, you just want someone to look at you and say, She’s a poet. It feels like being called a mermaid or a griffin or something.
Paris Review - The Art of Memoir No. 1, Mary Karr (via leopoldgursky)

Recognition, for a writer, I think, requires a commitment from the audience, to take the time to read, and in a world where we are dominated by schedules and deadlines, it almost seems like its a lost cause. But don’t give up, as you write, there are others who are willing to read.

(via englishmujer)

Apr 14, 2014 / 661 notes
Try to grow.
Apr 13, 2014 / 5 notes

Try to grow.

Hemingway and James Joyce were drinking buddies in Paris. Joyce was thin and bespectacled; Hemingway was tall and strapping. When they went out Joyce would get drunk, pick a fight with a bigger guy in the bar and then hide behind Hemingway and yell, “Deal with him, Hemingway. Deal with him.”

[x] (via newzerokaneda)

Between this and the story about him reassuring F. Scott Fitzgerald re dick size, I’m developing a picture of Hemingway as the mother hen of the disaffected white male literary set of the early 20th century.

He probably called up Steinbeck sometimes and was like I CAN’T EVEN WITH THESE DIPSHITS and Steinbeck was all “That’s what you get for living in Paris, asshole”.

(via copperbadge)

The greatest literary minds of our world, ladies and gents, were in fact human.

(via historicalmadness)

Apr 13, 2014 / 26,601 notes

"Because I could not stop for Death" by Emily Dickinson. 1890.
Submission by Stephen Mann. Follow him here!
Pre-order the Shit Rough Drafts book here!
Apr 13, 2014 / 674 notes


"Because I could not stop for Death" by Emily Dickinson. 1890.

Submission by Stephen Mann. Follow him here!

Pre-order the Shit Rough Drafts book here!

Apr 13, 2014 / 5 notes


And there they stood
Cut from the same cloth
Bound together by the constraints social circles and
Length of bank account balances
Hollowed out from birth
Filled with the expectations of others
Allowed nothing of their own

(via the-day-to-day)

Sometimes you weren’t supposed to share pain. Sometimes it was best just to deal with it alone.

Sarah Addison Allen, The Sugar Queen (via quotes-shape-us)

For when people ask “Why won’t you let me help?”

Apr 13, 2014 / 309 notes
I am strong, unyielding and unforgiving because I have to be. This world is far too dangerous for someone weak, malleable and trusting. That was the lesson I learned.
How to Survive: Character Traits.
Apr 13, 2014 / 2 notes
Well, the way you think I am isn’t always a reliable guide to who I am.
Will Graham
( -NBC Hannibal ) on assumptions.
Apr 12, 2014 / 20 notes
She comes off as very empathetic, and even a little vulnerable herself, but she wouldn’t be where she is today if she weren’t a wolf under that wool suit.
C.J. Roberts, Seduced in the Dark (via observando)
Apr 12, 2014 / 1,330 notes

The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real … for a moment at least … that long magic moment before we wake.

Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?

We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.

They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth.

George R.R. Martin (via quotes-shape-us)
Apr 12, 2014 / 219 notes