It was something to let him go.
It was a having to believe, furthermore,
in the voyage
of the other, a Ulysses
without an Ithaca,
was to speak
of the sea
of the shore—
and to have for a body
the going away of the body, to have for eyes
the going away of the eyes. And for hearing,
a silence, where once
And for comfort, a dwelling
steps into that weather
of which all
Karize Michella Uy, from the series Instead of
And a wave of primitive remembrance came over them, the beginning of all thought and its magical expiration, which came out of the darkness of the room. Laws, still unclear which must therefore have been repealed. Metals, malleable as wax, melted in fire and not congealed. Wood as pliable as a reed. Bodies that have no weight, no face. Stones that can float. Magnetic mountains. A reversal of the senses. The vast kingdom of the unreliable.Hans Henny Jahnn - The Ship (Fluss ohne Ufer)
Photograph by Hans Henny Jahnn
From now on it will be different. I shall never do anything any more from now on but play. No, I must not begin with an exaggeration. But I shall play a great part of the time, from now on, the greater part, if I can.Samuel Beckett, Malone Dies (via robcam-wfu)
You have come to the shore. There are no instructions.Denise Levertov (via mythologyofblue)
There is no means of testing which decision is better, because there is no basis for comparison. We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself? That is why life is always like a sketch. No, ‘sketch’ is not quite the word, because a sketch is an outline of something, the groundwork for a picture, whereas the sketch that is our life is a sketch for nothing, an outline with no picture.Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being (via robcam-wfu)
Maybe this world is another planet’s hell.ALDOUS HUXLEY ( 26 July 1894 - 22 November 1963)
Overhead the geese are a line,Anne Michaels, from “Miner’s Pond” (via proustitute)
a moving scar. Wavering
like a strand of pollen on the surface of a pond.
Like them, we carry each year in our bodies.
Our blood is time.