"
Apparently Arab scholars, when speaking of the text, use this admirable expression: the certain body. What body? We have several of them; the body of anatomists and physiologists, the one science sees or discusses: this is the text of grammarians, critics, commentators, philologists (the pheno-text). But we also have a body of bliss consisting solely of erotic relations, utterly distinct from the first body: it is another contour, another nomination; thus with the text: it is no more than the fires of language. …Does the text have human form, is it a figure, an anagram of the body? Yes, but of our erotic body. The pleasure of the text is irreducible to physiological need.
The pleasure of the text is that moment when my body pursues its own ideas — for my body does not have the same ideas I do.
Roland Barthes, The Pleasure of the Text (via)
(via invisiblestories)
"Life has a gap in it, it just does. You don’t go crazy trying to fill it like some lunatic."
from the movie “Take this Waltz” by Sarah Polley
"All is cold beauty; pain is never done."
On Visiting The Tomb Of Burns - John Keats (via emilyebullient)
"We’re here, there, not here, not there, swirling like specks of dust, claiming for ourselves the rights of the universe. Being important, being nothing, being caught in lives of our own making that we never wanted. Breaking out, trying again, wondering why the past comes with us, wondering how to talk about the past at all."
Jeanette Winterson, from Lighthousekeeping (via basava)
(Quelle: thechocolatebrigade, via basava)
"A thousand secrets are hidden in simply sitting still."
Karlfried Graf Durckheim, Hara: The Vital Center of Man
(Quelle: crashinglybeautiful, via human-voices)
"We are all falling. Here, this hand falls. And see - there goes another. It’s in us all."
Rainer Maria Rilke (via: Mythology of Blue)
Caravaggio - The Incredulity of Saint Thomas
1601-02; Oil on canvas, 42 1/8 x 57 1/2 in; Neues Palais, Potsdam
"my body
writes into your flesh
the poem
you make of me"
Audre Lorde, from “Recreation” (via awritersruminations)
The Murderer by Franz von Stuck, 1891.
The painting depicts the Furies — the goddesses of vengeance — as they lie in wait for the murderer who has just killed his victim. The Furies signify the torments awaiting the murderer after he has committed his crime.
(via butterflyeffects)
"All the things to which I give myself
grow rich and spend me."
Rainer Maria Rilke, from “The Poet” (trans. Edward Snow)
(Quelle: the-final-sentence)
