If only there could be an invention that bottled up a memory, like scent. And it never faded, and it never got stale. And then, when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked, and it would be like living the moment all over again.
Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca (via observando)
08:24 am ~ marblefeet997 notes

An S.E.P.," he said, "is something we can’t see, or don’t see, or our brain doesn’t let us see, because we think that it’s somebody else’s problem. That’s what S.E.P. means. Somebody else’s problem. The brain just edits it out, it’s like a blind spot. If you look at it directly you won’t see it unless you know precisely what it is. Your only hope is to catch it by surprise out of the corner of your eye.
Ford Prefect in Life, the Universe and Everything by Douglas Adams
04:51 pm ~ marblefeet10 notes

If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.
George Eliot, Middlemarch: A Study of Provincial Life (via liquidnight)
06:51 am ~ marblefeet111 notes


Courtesy of Louis C.K.


Courtesy of Louis C.K.

(via teachingliteracy)

07:00 am ~ marblefeet2,323 notes


— Albert Camus


— Albert Camus

(Source: aseaofquotes, via teachingliteracy)

12:54 pm ~ marblefeet2,777 notes

I am just unbearably interested; Did it mean anything to you? I mean we said goodbye, the modern method of obviously covering all emotional crises, and you shut the door behind you violently. Your exit speaks for itself; a moment of inconceivable rudeness and tremendous cowardice. But did it mean anything - dramatically walking away, indirectly (or perhaps absolutely directly) refusing me the right to even utter a single sentence? At any rate, your dark enigmatic ways are evidently swept away for such “partings” do not make the slightest impression on me. Worst of all, I thought you very much more of a brain than I had thought you before. Very much of a clever little brain. Nevertheless, not much of a person.
Katherine Mansfield, Selected Letters

(via violentwavesofemotion)

(via booklover)

01:14 pm ~ marblefeet249 notes

I began to get enormously interested in how everybody said the same thing over and over again with infinite variations but over and over again until finally if you listened with great intensity you could hear it rise and fall and tell all that there was inside them, not so much by the actual words they said or the thoughts they had but the movement of their thoughts and words endlessly the same and endlessly different.
Gertrude Stein

(via thisblankpage)

(Source: enchntdroselit, via teachingliteracy)

09:00 am ~ marblefeet2,461 notes

(via booklover)

01:31 pm ~ marblefeet9,693 notes

{…} and I’d like to place pain in a dusty corner, have it expand until it loses its bloody absurdity, and afterwards push it down the stairs. I can’t think of anything more romantic at the moment.
Virginia Woolf, The Diary Of Virginia Woolf Vol.4: 1930 - 1941 (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via the-hesitation-waltz)

04:28 am ~ marblefeet416 notes

The mind I love must have wild places, a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in the heavy grass, an overgrown little wood, the chance of a snake or two, a pool that nobody’s fathomed the depth of, and paths threaded with flowers planted by the mind.
Katherine Mansfield

(via mirroir)

(Source: biscodeja-vu, via largerloves)

02:49 am ~ marblefeet2,016 notes

It was an uncertain spring. The weather, perpetually changing, sent clouds of blue and of purple flying over the land. In the country farmers, looking at the fields, were apprehensive; in London umbrellas were opened and then shut by people looking up at the sky. But in April such weather was to be expected. Thousands of shop assistants made that remark, as they handed neat parcels to ladies in flounced dresses standing on the other side of the counter at Whiteley’s and the Army and Navy Stores. Interminable processions of shoppers in the West end, of business men in the East, paraded the pavements, like caravans perpetually marching,—so it seemed to those who had any reason to pause, say, to post a letter, or at a club window in Piccadilly. The stream of landaus, victorias and hansom cabs was incessant; for the season was beginning. In the quieter streets musicians doled out their frail and for the most part melancholy pipe of sound, which was echoed, or parodied, here in the trees of Hyde Park, here in St. James’s by the twitter of sparrows and the sudden outbursts of the amorous but intermittent thrush. The pigeons in the squares shuffled in the tree tops, letting fall a twig or two, and crooned over and over again the lullaby that was always interrupted. The gates at the Marble Arch and Apsley House were blocked in the afternoon by ladies in many-coloured dresses wearing bustles, and by gentlemen in frock coats carrying canes, wearing carnations. Here came the Princess, and as she passed hats were lifted. In the basements of the long avenues of the residential quarters servant girls in cap and apron prepared tea. Deviously ascending from the basement the silver teapot was placed on the table, and virgins and spinsters with hands that had staunched the sores of Bermondsey and Hoxton carefully measured out one, two, three, four spoonfuls of tea. When the sun went down a million little gaslights, shaped like the eyes in peacocks’ feathers, opened in their glass cages, but nevertheless broad stretches of darkness were left on the pavement. The mixed light of the lamps and the setting sun was reflected equally in the placid waters of the Round Pond and the Serpentine. Diners-out, trotting over the Bridge in hansom cabs, looked for a moment at the charming vista. At length the moon rose and its polished coin, though obscured now and then by wisps of cloud, shone out with serenity, with severity, or perhaps with complete indifference. Slowly wheeling, like the rays of a searchlight, the days, the weeks, the years passed one after another across the sky.
Virginia Woolf - The Years, 1937
01:36 pm ~ marblefeet2 notes


When a man loves cats, I am his friend and comrade, without further introduction. ~ Mark Twain [Samuel Langhorne Clemens] (American humorist, author; 1835–1910)


When a man loves cats, I am his friend and comrade, without further introduction. ~ Mark Twain [Samuel Langhorne Clemens] (American humorist, author; 1835–1910)

(Source: unforgettabledetritus)

06:45 am ~ marblefeet344 notes

It was raining. A fine rain, a gentle shower, was peppering the pavements and making them greasy. Was it worth while opening an umbrella, was it necessary to hail a hansom, people coming out from the theatres asked themselves, looking up at the mild, milky sky in which the stars were blunted. Where it fell on earth, on fields and gardens, it drew up the smell of earth. Here a drop poised on a grass-blade; there filled the cup of a wild flower, till the breeze stirred and the rain was spilt. Was it worth while to shelter under the hawthorn, under the hedge, the sheep seemed to question; and the cows, already turned out in the grey fields, under the dim hedges, munched on, sleepily chewing with raindrops on their hides. Down on the roofs it fell—here in Westminster, there in the Ladbroke Grove; on the wide sea a million points pricked the blue monster like an innumerable shower bath. Over the vast domes, the soaring spires of slumbering University cities, over the leaded libraries, and the museums, now shrouded in brown holland, the gentle rain slid down, till, reaching the mouths of those fantastic laughers, the many-clawed gargoyles, it splayed out in a thousand odd indentations. A drunken man slipping in a narrow passage outside the public house, cursed it. Women in childbirth heard the doctor say to the midwife, “It’s raining.” And the walloping Oxford bells, turning over and over like slow porpoises in a sea of oil, contemplatively intoned their musical incantation. The fine rain, the gentle rain, poured equally over the mitred and the bareheaded with an impartiality which suggested that the god of rain, if there were a god, was thinking Let it not be restricted to the very wise, the very great, but let all breathing kind, the munchers and chewers, the ignorant, the unhappy, those who toil in the furnace making innumerable copies of the same pot, those who bore red hot minds through contorted letters, and also Mrs Jones in the alley, share my bounty.
Virginia Woolf - The Years, 1937
10:11 pm ~ marblefeet2 notes

I prefer by far the warmth and softness to mere brilliancy and coldness. Some people remind me of sharp dazzling diamonds. Valuable but lifeless and loveless. Others, of the simplest field flowers, with hearts full of dew and with all the tints of celestial beauty reflected in their modest petals.
Anaïs Nin, The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin  (via fernsandmoss)

(Source: larmoyante, via largerloves)

04:04 am ~ marblefeet7,067 notes


“a Witch is born out of the true hungers of her time (…) I am a child of the poisonous wind that copulated with the River on an oil-slick, garbage infested midnight. I turn about on my own parentage. I inoculate against those very biles that brought me to light. I am a serum born of venoms. I am the antibody of all Time.”

Long After Midnight, Ray Bradburry

(via the-hesitation-waltz)

08:06 pm ~ marblefeet21,272 notes