“Everyone is dying, everything is dying, and the earth is dying also, eaten up by the sun and the wind. I don’t know where I get the courage to keep on living in the midst of these ruins. Let us love each other to the end.”
— George Sand, in a letter to Gustave Flaubert
new 44 pages story and limited edition cover for Vogue Czechoslovakia styled by Jan Kralicke #VogueCS
“do you realize… i – i would have gone through life half-awake… if you’d had the decency to leave me alone?”
“The white light splutters and pours. Carnations; chrysanthemums. Ivy in dark gardens. Wherever I go, I see you, turning the corner, you, you, you. I hasten, I follow. This, I fancy, must be the sea. Grey is the landscape; dim as ashes; the water murmurs and moves. If I fall on my knees, if I go through the ritual, the ancient antics, it’s you I adore; if I open my arms, it’s you I embrace, you I draw to me—”
— Virginia Woolf, from Complete Works; “An Unwritten Novel,” (via wearyvoices)
Arthur Boyd (Australian, 1920-1999), Nebuchadnezzar Eating Grass, 1969. Oil on canvas, 76 x 60 cm.
“I find me, leave me, go towards me, come from me, nothing ever but me, a particle of me, retrieved, lost, gone astray, I’m all these words, all these strangers, this dust of words, with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming together to say, fleeing one another to say, that I am they, all of them, those that merge, those that part, those that never meet, and nothing else, yes, something else, that I’m something quite different, a quite different thing, a wordless thing in an empty place, a hard shut dry cold black place, where nothing stirs, nothing speaks, and that I listen, and that I seek, like a caged beast born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born of caged beasts…”
— Samuel Beckett, from The Unnamable
(Grove, 1978;
first published 1953)
wraithsandstraysofparis 