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The joy of being alone, eating the honey of words. Robert Bly, in “Morning Poems” 

(Source: mitochondria)


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Most men and women lead lives at the worst so painful, at the best so monotonous, poor and limited that the urge to escape, the longing to transcend themselves if only for a few moments, is and has always been one of the principal appetites of the soul. The Doors of Perception, Aldous Huxley 

(Source: hi-mi-zu)


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The consequence of this is that I’m always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both. Markus Zusak, The Book Thief 

(Source: 13neighbors)


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(Source: elviro)

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My dear, I think of you always and at night I build myself a warm nest of things I remember and float in your sweetness till morning.
Zelda to F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1931

(Source: wordsthat-speak)


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Go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You wil get an an enormous reward. You will have created something. Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country (via arpeggia)

(Source: youmightfindyourself)


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…and I am out with lanterns, looking for myself. Emily Dickinson, Letters of Emily Dickinson, edited by Mabel Loomis Todd (via loveyourchaos)

(Source: litverve)


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If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking. Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood (via rejouir)
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