March 2012
227 posts
The world has enough beautiful mountains and meadows, spectacular skies and...
– Michael Josephson (via elige)
1 tag
Everything you do right now ripples outward and affects everyone. Your posture...
– David Deida (via elige)
She wanted to die, but she also wanted to live in Paris.
– Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary (via sketchofthepast)
February 2012
281 posts
2 tags
1 tag
1 tag
2 tags
She was not a bit ashamed of climbing up trees for birds’ nests, nor of riding astride in horse-races with the peasant lads on the pasturage. To avoid her father she would stay away from home for whole days at a time, dreaming of her return to school, while at school she would again dream of her return to the solitude of her home.
Wladyslaw Stanislaw Reymont, The Comedienne, (Janina)
1 tag
2 tags
She could not force herself to speak a word. The heather was growing dim around...
– Virginia Woolf, Night and Day (via sketchofthepast)
1 tag
2 tags
Moreover she had an abnormal fear of thunderstorms, showers, frogs, dark rooms, unlucky numbers, and all loud sounds: so this husband of hers was killing her with his brutality.
W.S. Reymont, The Comedienne (Orlowski’s runaway wife)
2 tags
She had the soul of a mimosa, so sensitive that every tear, pain, or grief would cast her into despair.
W.S. Reymont, The Comedienne (Orlowski’s wife who left him)
2 tags
Orlowski loved his daughter with hatred, that is, he loved her because he hated her.
—W.S. Reymont, The Comedienne ( about Janina)
2 tags
Ah yes, he loved in such a fashion
As men today no longer do;
As only poets,...
– Eugene Onegin - Alexander Pushkin (via running-nowhere)
1 tag
The true pleasure is that for which they give up another.
– Marcel Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah, translated by John Sturrock, p. 110 (via odettecarotte)
3 tags
1 tag
The real offence, as she ultimately perceived, was her having a mind of her own...
– Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady (via beautravail)
1 tag
1 tag
We do not truly speak except at a distance. There is no word not severed.
– Edmond Jabès, The Book of Margins, trans. Rosmarie Waldrop (via proustitute)
2 tags
Finished Catching Fire today. Know that Mockingjay is waiting. omg. :(
1 tag
Make your thoughts kneel,
And turn yourself into a look, as we do.
– Victor Hugo, The Light (1891). (via emanationsoftheyellowsign)
The exaltation of a scopic and gnostic drive: the fiction of knowledge is...
– Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (1984). (via emanationsoftheyellowsign)
On a somewhat serious note today because of a conversation the other day:
I...
– You Didn’t Thank Me For Punching You in the Face « Views from the Couch (via how-to-kiss-distinctly-american)
2 tags
In a nearby town an amateur theatrical was being arranged.
—Reymont, The Comedienne
2 tags
For the first time in her life which up till now had been one continuous struggle, revolt, and protest she felt overcome by distress.
—Reymont, The Comedienne, (Janina)
3 tags
No! I will not have him or anyone else! I will not marry!
— W.S. Reymont, The Comedienne, (Janina)
1 tag
1 tag
1 tag
2 tags
The other one, a twenty-three-year-old, bothers me more. She was always a good...
– Joan Didion, from “On Keeping a Notebook” (via yesyes)
1 tag
3 tags
There was something strange about her voice: an alto that at times dropped into a deep baritone of almost masculine accents.
—Wladyslaw Stanislaw Reymont, The Comedienne (Narrator describing Janina)
5 tags
1 tag
1 tag
1 tag
I told Swann that I had never felt jealousy, that I did not even know what it...
– Marcel Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah, translated by John Spurrock, p. 104
Swann giving the Narrator an extremely brief summary of the plot of the first installment of the novel.
(via odettecarotte)
1 tag
1 tag
1 tag
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily....
– (via ahuntersheart)
1 tag
1 tag
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and Sunday rest,...
– W.H. Auden (via cartographe)
1 tag
2 tags
2 tags
1 tag
1 tag
1 tag
ahuntersheart:
“As a blind man, lifting a curtain, knows it is morning, I know this change: On one side of silence there is no smile; But when I breathe with the birds, The spirit of wrath becomes the spirit of blessing, And the dead begin from their dark to sing in my sleep” -Theodore Roethke, from “Journey To The Interior”