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También yo he sentido la inclinación a obligarme, casi de una manera demoniaca, a ser más fuerte de lo que en realidad soy.

Sören Kierkegaard (via nuberrante)

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Frank O'Hara, from Selected Poems; "Mayakovksy"

[Text ID: I love you. I love you, / but I'm turning to my verses / and my heart is closing / like a fist.]

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“Desde niño, no fui como los otros eran. No vi cómo otros veían. Y todo lo que amé, lo amé solo…”

— Edgar Allan Poe

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“It’s all messy: the hair, the bed, the words, the heart. Life.”

— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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“The human heart, God’s open wound.”

— Emil Cioran, excerpt from Tears and Saints

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In me, something is broken. I try over and over again to understand what happened.

Anaïs Nin, from nearer the moon: the previously unpublished unexpurgated diary, 1937-1939

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Trace Evidence, Charif Shanahan

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Remedios Varo, detail from Papilla Estelar, 1958

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“…que todavía no ha sido posible establecer con la más mínima precisión qué soy, dónde estoy, si soy palabras entre palabras, o si soy silencio entre silencios…”

— Samuel Beckett, El innombrable

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“[…] something stirred in me, the little hyacinth that blooms inside my heart quietly unfurled a new petal.”

“In this world of false friends and dangerous ambiguities where nothing is what it seems, isn’t it best to accept whatever comes without resistance or inquiry, relying only upon the unassailable knowledge that in one’s heart a hyacinth is secretly and inviolably blooming?”

—Anna Kavan, ‘Now I Know Where My Place Is’, from I Am Lazarus

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"Se mete uno por recovecos extraños cualquier noche, sin responsabilidad, y a la mañana siguiente o días después va descubriendo que lo que hizo fue comenzar a matar de una vez por todas su capacidad de emocionarse ante los hechos de las personas, y de allí en adelante, compañero, vía libre al infierno."

• Andrés Caicedo

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“In me, by myself, without human relationships, there are no visible lies. The limited circle is pure.”

— Franz Kafka, from a diary entry featured in Diaries; 1910-1923

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« Tenderness is the art of personifying, of sharing feelings, and thus endlessly discovering similarities. Creating stories means constantly bringing things to life, giving an existence to all the tiny pieces of the world that are represented by human experiences […]. Tenderness personalizes everything to which it relates, making it possible to give it a voice, to give it the space and the time to come into existence, and to be expressed. It is thanks to tenderness that the teapot starts to talk.

Tenderness is the most modest form of love. […] It appears wherever we take a close and careful look at another being, at something that is not our “self”. Tenderness is spontaneous and disinterested; it goes far beyond empathetic fellow feeling. Instead it is the conscious, though perhaps slightly melancholy, common sharing of fate. Tenderness is deep emotional concern about another being, its fragility, its unique nature, and its lack of immunity to suffering and the effects of time. Tenderness perceives the bonds that connect us, the similarities and sameness between us. It is a way of looking that shows the world as being alive, living, interconnected, cooperating with, and codependent on itself.

Literature is built on tenderness […]. »

— Olga Tokarczuk in her Nobel speech, December 2019

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"Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood."

– George Orwell

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— Khaled Hosseini, And the mountains echoed