If you feel that well-read people are less likely to be evil, and a world full of people sitting quietly with good books in their hands is preferable to a world filled with schisms and sirens and other noisy and troublesome things, then every time you enter a library you might say to yourself, ‘The world is quiet here,’ as a sort of pledge proclaiming reading to be the greater good.
—Lemony Snicket (via
thesnicketfile)
safeisrelative
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http://safeisrelative.tumblr.com/post/21161472758/if-you-feel-that-well-read-people-are-less-likely
nilecrocodile
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http://nilecrocodile.tumblr.com/post/20915317064
‘You teach me now how cruel you’ve been—cruel and false. Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they’ll blight you—they’ll damn you. You loved me—then what right had you to leave me? What right—answer me—for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart—you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you—oh, God! would you like to live with your soul in the grave?’
‘Let me alone. Let me alone,’ sobbed Catherine. ‘If I’ve done wrong, I’m dying for it. It is enough! You left me too: but I won’t upbraid you! I forgive you. Forgive me!’
‘It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those wasted hands,’ he answered. ‘Kiss me again; and don’t let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer—but yours! How can I?’
—
Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë (via
wuthering-heights)
wuthering-heights
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http://wuthering-heights.tumblr.com/post/20353416679/you-teach-me-now-how-cruel-youve-been-cruel-and
The argument goes something like this:
‘I refuse to prove that I exist,’ says God, ‘for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing.’
‘But,’ says Man, ‘the Babel fish is a dead giveaway, isn’t it? It could not have evolved by chance, it proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don’t - QED.’
‘Oh dear,’ says God, ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ and promptly vanishes in a puff of logic.
‘Oh, that was easy,’ says Man, and for an encore goes on to prove that black is white and gets himself killed on the next pedestrian crossing.
Most leading theologians claim that this argument is a load of dingo’s kidneys, but that didn’t stop Oolon Colluphid making a small fortune when he used it as the central theme of his best-selling book, Well, That About Wraps It Up for God.
—Douglas Adams (via
fuckyeahdouglasadams1)
fuckyeahdouglasadams1
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http://fuckyeahdouglasadams1.tumblr.com/post/2834111188/the-argument-goes-something-like-this-i-refuse
During the monsoon, on my last morning, all this Beethoven and rain.
—Michael Ondaatje,
from Running in the Family (thanks, an-ice-cream-memory)
the-final-sentence
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http://the-final-sentence.tumblr.com/post/19582415342/during-the-monsoon-on-my-last-morning-all-this
Sylvia Plath, Mad Girl’s Love Song
pocketsizedtanvee
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http://pocketsizedtanvee.tumblr.com/post/16772234529/sylvia-plath-mad-girls-love-song
meeting midnight
I met Midnight
Her eyes were sparkling pavements after frost.
She wore a full length, dark-blue raincoat with a hood.
She winked. She smoked a small cheroot.
I followed her.
Her walk was more a shuffle, more a dance.
She took the path to the river, down she went.
On Midnight’s scent,
I heard the twelve cool syllables, her name,
chime from the town.
When those bells stopped,
Midnight paused by the water’s edge.
She waited there.
I saw a girl in purple on the bridge.
It was One o’Clock.
Hurry, Midnight said. It’s late, it’s late.
I saw them run together.
Midnight wept.
They kissed full on the lips
And then I slept.
The next day I bumped into Half-Past Four.
He was a bore.
Carol Ann Duffy
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Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
bids me wear them, warm then, until evening
when I’ll brush her hair. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,
resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk
or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.
She’s beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing
with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent
beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.
I dust her shoulders with a rabbit’s foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
my red lips part as though I want to speak.
Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
her every movement in my head…Undressing,
taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way
she always does…And I lie here awake,
knowing the pearls are cooling even now
in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn.
—
“Warming Her Pearls” by Carol Ann Duffy (via evewithanapple
)
dollsome-does-tumblr
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http://dollsome-does-tumblr.tumblr.com/post/14076698380/next-to-my-own-skin-her-pearls-my-mistress-bids
forest, carol ann duffy
There were flowers at the edge of the forest, cupping
The last of the light in their upturned petals. I followed you in,
Under the sighing, restless trees and my whole life vanished.
The moon tossed down its shimmering cloth. We undressed,
then dressed again in the gowns of the moon. We knelt in the leaves,
kissed, kissed; new words rustled nearby and we swooned.
Didn’t we? And didn’t I see you rise and go deeper
into the woods and follow you still, till even my childhood shrank
to a glow-worm of light where those flowers darkened and closed.
Thorns on my breasts, rain in my mouth, loam on my bare feet, rough
Bark grazing my back, I moaned for them all. You stood, waist deep,
In a stream, pulling me in, so I swam. You were the water, the wind
In the branches wringing their hands, the heavy, wet perfume of soil.
I am there now, lost in the forest, dwarfed by the giant trees. Find me.
(from Rapture, by Carol Ann Duffy)
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minternet:
Shel Silverstein - Needles and Pins
klainemalfoy
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http://klainemalfoy.tumblr.com/post/12851181997/minternet-shel-silverstein-needles-and-pins
safeisrelative
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http://safeisrelative.tumblr.com/post/9043060641
