"A poem is a naked person. Some people say I am a poet."
--Bob Dylan

Occasional bouts of misanthropy, but if you wear that velvet dress...
07:21"Meanwhile the world goes on."

Mary Oliver, excerpt from “Wild Geese” + (via mythologyofblue)
04:55"When you really love someone it can certainly give you hell."

Ernest Hemingway, from The Letters Of Ernest Hemingway: Vol. 2 (1923-1925)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via lifeinpoetry)

04:55"Beware of using up your last forty years in being the curator of your first fifty."

Allan GurganusOldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All (via vintageanchorbooks)
20:03 verkr:

Flowers at a marketplace in Paris


Flowers at a marketplace in Paris


Just had to re-follow a bunch of people I thought I was following…what’s going on tumblr?

20:00"How can I stop fearing other people? How can I know who I am? How to let my native sense of meaning flow and connect with people and the world? Why this sense of horror, coming over me? Fear?"

Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via thymoss)

20:00"October 19. The inner world can only be experienced, not described."

Franz Kafka, The Blue Octavo Notebooks (via kafkaesque-world)

(via englishproblems)

20:00"Character, I think, is the single most important thing in fiction. You might read a book once for its interesting plot—but not twice."

Diana Gabaldon (via writingbox)

(via englishproblems)

19:59"I’m not for everyone. I’m barely for me."

Marc Maron (via heureun)

(Source: goofballery, via windswept-trainwreck)



Street stalls in Paris by the Seine. Some chocked with old books, signed old postcards that can be 50 years old, beautiful anatomical drawinsg of flowers or fruits or vegetables; their latin names inscribed beautifully in cursive. Little versions of their road signs shiny and heavy hanging, although I didn’t buy any of those things. The books were in french; I can’t read french. The drawings were beautiful but I couldn’t think of anywhere in my home where I could place it where people would look; in the home I was staying in in Paris, there was a anatomical drawing of flowers in the toilet but it belonged there beneath the little creaky window where sunlight streamed in, beside the potted plants. I didn’t buy the road signs either. If I were to bring them home they would just look incredibly forlorn and out of place. Sometimes the best thing you can do is to let a thing be left behind where it is most beautiful, not take it away to a place where it doesn’t belong just so you can possess it as a signifier of memory.

(via verkur)