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timeimmemorial:

I learned that people can easily forget that others are human.

— “Prisoner” from the Stanford Prison Experiment, 1971

(Source: eolithandbone)

Don’t ask for guarantees. And don’t look to be saved in any one thing, person, machine, or library. Do your own bit of saving, and if you drown, at least die knowing you were heading for shore.
– Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
theparisreview:

GRAMMAR
What is rigid has its place,a dimming to come back to.What’s right is mutable.
Station to depart from, smokyplatform in the tiny hours.Condensation gathered on the clock.Pull the collar close. Leave conversationwatchful by the gate.
Gray as it is, the structure’s bulkremains for acres into the fog.
—Melanie Rehak, from “Self-Portrait as the Liberal Arts.”Photography: Angex Lin.

theparisreview:

GRAMMAR

What is rigid has its place,
a dimming to come back to.
What’s right is mutable.

Station to depart from, smoky
platform in the tiny hours.
Condensation gathered on the clock.
Pull the collar close. Leave conversation
watchful by the gate.

Gray as it is, the structure’s bulk
remains for acres into the fog.

Melanie Rehak, from “Self-Portrait as the Liberal Arts.”
Photography: Angex Lin.

Oh, the comfort - the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person - having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.
– Dinah Craik, A Life for a Life (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
I will dream … not to mend any outer meaning,
but to renovate my abandoned interior from the trace
of emotional drought. I have memorized all of my heart,
like the back of my hand: it’s no longer meddlesome
and spoiled. One aspirin suffices to soften
and tranquilize it. As if it were my stranger neighbor.
I am not subject to its whim and women. The heart
rusts like iron and doesn’t moan, yearn for, or become
mad over the first tender licentious rain,
it doesn’t ring from drought like August grass.
As if my heart were austere, or extraneous
to me like the “like” in a simile.
When the heart’s water dries up, the aesthetic
is more abstract, and emotions wrap themselves
in coats, virginity, and talent
– Mahmoud Darwish, from “Mural” in If I Were Another. Farrar Straus Giroux, 2009 (transl. by Fady Joudah)

(Source: metaphorformetaphor, via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

The night is windless.
Empty, the roadway’s trail.
I wanted to speak,
But to whom, to whom?
– Arvid Mörne, from “The Night Is Windless” in Nordic Voices in Print (translated by David McDuff)

(Source: metaphorformetaphor, via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

thewanderingcollective:

Long Rock Beach, Cornwall in December 
35mm by Georgiana

thewanderingcollective:

Long Rock Beach, Cornwall in December 

35mm by Georgiana

(via earthmusic)

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped and summer was gone.
– A. Bartlett Giamatti (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
The need to go astray, to be destroyed, is an extremely private, distant, passionate, turbulent truth.
– Georges Bataille (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

timeimmemorial:

I learned that people can easily forget that others are human.

— “Prisoner” from the Stanford Prison Experiment, 1971

(Source: eolithandbone)

Don’t ask for guarantees. And don’t look to be saved in any one thing, person, machine, or library. Do your own bit of saving, and if you drown, at least die knowing you were heading for shore.
– Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
theparisreview:

GRAMMAR
What is rigid has its place,a dimming to come back to.What’s right is mutable.
Station to depart from, smokyplatform in the tiny hours.Condensation gathered on the clock.Pull the collar close. Leave conversationwatchful by the gate.
Gray as it is, the structure’s bulkremains for acres into the fog.
—Melanie Rehak, from “Self-Portrait as the Liberal Arts.”Photography: Angex Lin.

theparisreview:

GRAMMAR

What is rigid has its place,
a dimming to come back to.
What’s right is mutable.

Station to depart from, smoky
platform in the tiny hours.
Condensation gathered on the clock.
Pull the collar close. Leave conversation
watchful by the gate.

Gray as it is, the structure’s bulk
remains for acres into the fog.

Melanie Rehak, from “Self-Portrait as the Liberal Arts.”
Photography: Angex Lin.

Oh, the comfort - the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person - having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.
– Dinah Craik, A Life for a Life (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
I will dream … not to mend any outer meaning,
but to renovate my abandoned interior from the trace
of emotional drought. I have memorized all of my heart,
like the back of my hand: it’s no longer meddlesome
and spoiled. One aspirin suffices to soften
and tranquilize it. As if it were my stranger neighbor.
I am not subject to its whim and women. The heart
rusts like iron and doesn’t moan, yearn for, or become
mad over the first tender licentious rain,
it doesn’t ring from drought like August grass.
As if my heart were austere, or extraneous
to me like the “like” in a simile.
When the heart’s water dries up, the aesthetic
is more abstract, and emotions wrap themselves
in coats, virginity, and talent
– Mahmoud Darwish, from “Mural” in If I Were Another. Farrar Straus Giroux, 2009 (transl. by Fady Joudah)

(Source: metaphorformetaphor, via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

The night is windless.
Empty, the roadway’s trail.
I wanted to speak,
But to whom, to whom?
– Arvid Mörne, from “The Night Is Windless” in Nordic Voices in Print (translated by David McDuff)

(Source: metaphorformetaphor, via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

thewanderingcollective:

Long Rock Beach, Cornwall in December 
35mm by Georgiana

thewanderingcollective:

Long Rock Beach, Cornwall in December 

35mm by Georgiana

(via earthmusic)

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped and summer was gone.
– A. Bartlett Giamatti (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
The need to go astray, to be destroyed, is an extremely private, distant, passionate, turbulent truth.
– Georges Bataille (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
"Don’t ask for guarantees. And don’t look to be saved in any one thing, person, machine, or library. Do your own bit of saving, and if you drown, at least die knowing you were heading for shore."
"Oh, the comfort - the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person - having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away."
"I will dream … not to mend any outer meaning,
but to renovate my abandoned interior from the trace
of emotional drought. I have memorized all of my heart,
like the back of my hand: it’s no longer meddlesome
and spoiled. One aspirin suffices to soften
and tranquilize it. As if it were my stranger neighbor.
I am not subject to its whim and women. The heart
rusts like iron and doesn’t moan, yearn for, or become
mad over the first tender licentious rain,
it doesn’t ring from drought like August grass.
As if my heart were austere, or extraneous
to me like the “like” in a simile.
When the heart’s water dries up, the aesthetic
is more abstract, and emotions wrap themselves
in coats, virginity, and talent"
"The night is windless.
Empty, the roadway’s trail.
I wanted to speak,
But to whom, to whom?"
"It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped and summer was gone."
"The need to go astray, to be destroyed, is an extremely private, distant, passionate, turbulent truth."

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