vintageblouses - Tumblr blog

[vintageblouses]

Sei come me, ansiosa di vivere momenti perfetti e spaventata dal timore di rovinarli.

[A. Nin]

[vintageblouses]

“Una donna innamorata è capace di tutto. Esattamente come una che non lo è.”

ROBERTO GERVASO

[vintageblouses]

Si tratta di vivere ogni cosa.

Quando si vivono le domande,

forse, piano piano, si finisce,

senza accorgersene,

col vivere dentro alle risposte

celate in un giorno che non sappiamo.

[vintageblouses]

Io vorrei stare sopra le tue labbra

per spegnermi alla neve dei tuoi denti.

Io vorrei stare dentro il tuo petto

per sciogliermi al tuo sangue.

Fra i tuoi capelli d’oro

vorrei eternamente sognare.

E che diventasse il tuo cuore

la tomba al mio che duole.

Che la tua carne fosse la mia carne,

che la mia fronte fosse la tua fronte.

Tutta l’anima mia vorrei che entrasse

nel tuo piccolo corpo.

Essere io il tuo pensiero, io

il tuo vestito bianco,

perche’ tu t’innamori

di me d’una passione cosi’ forte

che ti consumi cercandomi

senza trovarmi mai.

E perche’ tu il mio nome

vada gridando ai tramonti,

chiedendo di me all’acqua,

bevendo, triste, tutte le amarezze

che sulla strada ho lasciato,

desiderandoti, il cuore.

E intanto io penetrero’ nel tuo

tenero corpo dolce

essendo io te stessa

e dimorando in te, donna, per sempre,

mentre tu ancora mi cerchi invano

da Oriente ad Occidente,

fin che alla fine saremo bruciati

dalla livida fiamma della morte.

[vintageblouses]

“Cold November nights, poignant sensations, deep, resonant silence,”

— Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry ft. in “Diaries,” written c. November 1940

[vintageblouses]

Bram Stoker — Dracula

[vintageblouses]

«Sai che significa telepatia? Quando io non busso e tu apri la porta.»

da Natale in casa Cupiello (1931), De Filippo.

[vintageblouses]

“To slice a fig the long way and linger. To grieve for a country. To grieve without a country to grieve.”

— Maya C. Popa, from “Broken Periodic”, American Faith

[vintageblouses]

““One bird halts the silence,” writes Borges in a poem called “Break of Day.” As though silence is a force that moves like darkness or like death, stopping now and then, steering away for a time, but always eventually returning. Daybreak, writes Borges, is the most fragile moment of the day. If the world is, as some argue, “made up by souls in a common act of magic,” if we’re dreaming it up together, then the “shuddering instant of daybreak” endangers its existence. It holds the threat of waking up.”

—

Nina MacLaughlin, from “The Sound of Dawn”, The Paris Review

(via voirlvmer)

[vintageblouses]

It was raining when we buried my mum, she loved lilacs and here they are, the lilac lilacs like pendulous large breasts dripping with dew, I am enjoying them alone with my mug of coffee, which I also enjoy with the intensity of a remark made in a surgical theatre. Soon I will vacuum the day, not a speck of it will remain, I will suck it up like a bee at the tit, making a hoopla. But now it is quiet, hardly anyone is dressed, not a doggie is walking. I think flowers enjoy their solitude in the early dawn before the buzz begins.

— Mary Ruefle, from “A Morning Person”

[vintageblouses]

“I found out I was in love with you, winter before last,” she said. “I wasn’t going to say anything about it because - well, you know. If you felt anything like that for me, you’d have known I did. But it wasn’t both of us. So there was no good in it. But then, when you told us you’re leaving… At first I thought, all the more reason to say nothing. But then I thought, that wouldn’t be fair. To me, partly. Love has a right to be spoken. And you have a right to know that somebody loves you. That somebody has loved you, could love you. We all need to know that. Maybe it’s what we need most.”

- A Fisherman of the inland sea, Ursula K. Leguin

[vintageblouses]

days in the sun

[vintageblouses]

“Dalle nubi scaturì un improbabile fascio di umida luce solare e nel cielo si formò un altro arcobaleno. Come una promessa, pensò Lisey. Di quelle a cui vuoi credere ma di cui non ti fidi fino in fondo.”

— La storia di Lisey, Stephen King

[vintageblouses]

“Ma giusto e sbagliato non sono parole, - disse. - Sono sensazioni. Le senti nelle budella, negli intestini e da tutte le parti. Non sono parole. Non sono canzoni per chitarra. Le hai dentro. Nel cuore e nell'intestino. Come le persone che ami con tutto te stesso.”

— David F. Wallace, La ragazza dai capelli strani

[vintageblouses]

“The earth rose to meet her, and in its hitherto formless black density the charms and secrets of the earth on a moonlit night revealed themselves.”

— Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master & Margarita (tr. by Richard Pevear & Larissa Volokhonsky), 1940

[vintageblouses]

🌿☕ 𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓪𝔁𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 ☕🌿

[vintageblouses]

“I don’t mean sadness as much as I mean the obsession with it. […] What I really want to do is say that life is impossible, and the lie we tell ourselves is that it is too short. Life, if anything, is too long. We accumulate too much along the way. Too many heartbreaks, too many funerals, too many physical setbacks. It’s a miracle any of us survive at all. I know that I stopped thinking about extreme grief as the sole vehicle for great art when the grief started to take people with it. And I get it. The tortured artist is the artist that gets remembered for all time, particularly if they either perish or overcome. But the truth is that so many of us are stuck in the middle. So many of us begin tortured and end tortured, with only brief bursts of light in between, and I’d rather have average art and survival than miracles that come at the cost of someone’s life. There will always be something great and tragic to celebrate and I am wondering, now, if I’ve had enough. I am, of course, in favor of letting all grief work through the body and manifest itself creatively. But what I’m less in favor of is the celebration of pain that might encourage someone to mine deeper into that unforgiving darkness, until it is impossible for them to climb out. I’m less in favor of anything that hurts and then becomes theater, if that theater isn’t also working to heal the person experiencing pain.”

— Hanif Abdurraqib, from “Brief Notes On Staying // No One Is Making Their Best Work When They Want To Die,” in They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us