because literature is my utopia

explore-blog:

Delightful portrait of Virginia Woolf by artist Ping Zhu, who seems to capture Woolf at the very moment she is pondering the creative benefits of keeping a diary or composing another passionate love letter to Vita Sackville-West.

explore-blog:

Delightful portrait of Virginia Woolf by artist Ping Zhu, who seems to capture Woolf at the very moment she is pondering the creative benefits of keeping a diary or composing another passionate love letter to Vita Sackville-West.

All of a sudden
I miss everyone
even the ones
who are not gone
yet.

The Joy of Being Alive | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

(via brownrosy)

I am infinitely more than the words you assign me.

By Definition, by Brittany Rubio. (via songofanothersummer)

(via brownrosy)

the-library-and-step-on-it:

James Baldwin in Istanbul.

(via chos)

theparisreview:

“I don’t, honey. I’m sorry, I just can’t let that go past. Deep, deep, deep down I know that dream was never mine. And I wept and I cried and I fought and I stormed, but I just knew it.”
This week’s staff pick, including Audre Lorde’s view of the American dream, The Nightwatches of Bonaventura, and the king of the monkeys.

theparisreview:

“I don’t, honey. I’m sorry, I just can’t let that go past. Deep, deep, deep down I know that dream was never mine. And I wept and I cried and I fought and I stormed, but I just knew it.”

This week’s staff pick, including Audre Lorde’s view of the American dream, The Nightwatches of Bonaventura, and the king of the monkeys.

(via chos)

(via bookmania)

You guys know about vampires? … You know, vampires have no reflections in a mirror? There’s this idea that monsters don’t have reflections in a mirror. And what I’ve always thought isn’t that monsters don’t have reflections in a mirror. It’s that if you want to make a human being into a monster, deny them, at the cultural level, any reflection of themselves. And growing up, I felt like a monster in some ways. I didn’t see myself reflected at all.

Ever finished a book? I mean, truly finished one? Cover to cover. Closed the spine with that slow awakening that comes with reentering consciousness?

You take a breath, deep from the bottom of your lungs and sit there. Book in both hands, your head staring down at the cover, back page or wall in front of you.

You’re grateful, thoughtful, pensive. You feel like a piece of you was just gained and lost. You’ve just experienced something deep, something intimate… Full from the experience, the connection, the richness that comes after digesting another soul.

[…]

It’s no surprise that readers are better people. Having experienced someone else’s life through abstract eyes, they’ve learned what it’s like to leave their bodies and see the world through other frames of reference. They have access to hundreds of souls, and the collected wisdom of all them.

Beautiful read on why readers are, “scientifically,” the best people to date

Perhaps Kafka’s timeless contention that books are "the axe for the frozen sea inside us" applies equally to the frozen sea between us. 

(via explore-blog)

icouldjustleavemybodyforthenight:

fscottfitzgeralding:

Jack Kerouac, New York, 1959.

shit

(via jemexcusemaman)