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“This August has been like a gulf—a deep breath before the release of everything in a wild effort.”

— Albert Camus, from Notebooks 1935-1942; September 1937; tr. by Philip Thody (via metrosouthern)

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"You must go in quest of yourself, and you will find yourself again only in the simple and forgotten things. Why not go into the forest for a time, literally? Sometimes a tree tells you more than can be read in books… "

—Carl Jung

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ig credit: jafren_marcelo77

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Do you want to go to the library and then take a walk?

August 15, 1926 Journals of Anais Nin 1923-1927 [volume 3]

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William Mitcheson Timlin, The Magic Forest

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Marina Tsvetaeva, from a letter to Boris Pasternak featured in Letters, Summer 1926

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From the ninetieth anniversary issue of Poetry magazine

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Albert Camus, from a journal entry featured in American Journals, published in 1978

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Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vanessa Bell, featured in The Selected Letters of Virginia Woolf

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All the clocks are changed now. It is almost time to feel our way out of the world. - Linda Pastan, from "The Coming on of Night"

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― Elena Ferrante, The Story of the Lost Child

[text ID: To write, you have to want something to survive you.]

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Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Susan Huntington featured in "Open Me Carefully,"

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ig credit: coffeesoakedpages

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“If you are not the free person you want to be you must find a place to tell the truth about that. To tell how things go for you. Candor is like a skein being produced inside the belly day after day, it has to get itself woven out somewhere. You could whisper down a well. You could write a letter and keep it in a drawer. You could inscribe a curse on a ribbon of lead and bury it in the ground to lie unread for thousands of years. The point is not to find a reader, the point is the telling itself. Consider a person standing alone in a room. The house is silent. She is looking down at a piece of paper. Nothing else exists. All her veins go down into this paper. She takes her pen and writes on it some marks no one else will ever see, she bestows on it a kind of surplus, she tops it off with a gesture as private and accurate as her own name.”

— Anne Carson, “Could 1,” from Candor

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Paul Verlaine, from Modern Poets of France: An Anthology; "Mon Rêve Familier,"