19. Saudi Arabia. Spain. USA.
Make your own Bible. Select and collect all the words and sentences that in all your readings have been to you like the blast of a trumpet.
— Ralph Waldo Emerson (via lazyyogi)
Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?
— Pablo Picasso (via dingyfeathers)
Every first draft is perfect, because all a first draft has to do is exist.
Jane Smiley (via inspired-to-write)
Somehow this is the most inspiring thing I’ve read in a long time. I’m going to go write now.
No matter how good things are, there will always be solitary nights you spend in your bedroom, in a car, or in a party full of your closest friends when it feels like the walls are caving in.
— Dan Campbell (via wordsthat-speak)
Sometimes I imagine my own autopsy. Disappointment in myself: right kidney. Disappointment of others in me: left kidney. Personal failures: kishkes. When the clocks are turned back and the dark falls before I’m ready, this, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel in my wrists. And when I wake up and my fingers are stiff , almost certainly I was dreaming of my childhood. Yesterday I saw a man kicking a dog and I felt it behind my eyes. I don’t know what to call this, a place before tears. The pain of forgetting: spine. The pain of remembering: spine. All the times I have suddenly realized that my parents are dead, even now, it still surprises me, to exist in the world while that which made me has ceased to exist: my knees.To everything a season, to every time I’ve woken only to make the mistake of believing for a moment that someone was sleeping beside me: a hemorrhoid. Loneliness: there is no organ that can take it all.
— Nicole Krauss, The History of Love (via whatokay)
Is it better to out-monster the monster or to be quietly devoured?
— Friedrich Nietzsche (via jaimelannister)
She’s like smoke: you think you’re seeing her clearly enough, but when you reach for her there’s nothing there.
— Ryu Murakami, Audition (via vvolare)
Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
— Anton Chekhov (via thisdeludedwanderlust)