Provocateur
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My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
by Dorothy Parker (via whowillbeforme)
II.
There is a kind of pressure in humans to take whatever is most
beloved by them
and smash it.
by Anne Carson-Book of Isaiah (via que-cosa-rara)

(Source: queercazador)

Art was the prescription for sanity and relief from the terrors and pains of human life.
by Anais Nin, Diaries (via autumnalsugar)

(Source: siren-ss)

sexy-authors: Anais Nin
When they made love
Geryon liked to touch in slow succession each of the bones of Herakles’ back
as it arched away from him into who knows what dark dream of its own, running both hands all the way down
from the base of the neck
to the end of the spine which he can cause to shiver like a root in the rain.
by Anne Carson from Autobiography of Red (via lipstreams)
you came and I was crazy for you
and you cooled my mind that burned with longing
by Anne Carson, If Not, Winter (via notaflu)
the-lost-heretic: Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller

das-abendbrot:

I finally wrote down the words
That for so long I dared not say.
I have a dull headache,
And my body is strangely numb.

— Anna Akhmatova (2006) The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova, Boston: Zephyr Press, p. 92

(Source: tofufruits)

Along the hard crust of deep snows

sovietchic:

Along the hard crust of deep snows,
To the secret, white house of yours,
So gentle and quiet – we both
Are walking, in silence half-lost.
And sweeter than all songs, sung ever,
Are this dream, becoming the truth,
Entwined twigs’ a-nodding with favor,
The light ring of your silver spurs… 

meroure: —Tag, Anne Carson