Today I wake in Dover only just
Dover, where I leave like a ferry,
Where I know no one grows attached,
Where every conversation will begin with a welcome and will end with a goodbye;
The docks taunt me.
I don’t have my passport but there are ships and I’m ready to go
Over the recommended dosage
I am in Dover but our sons don’t know
Dover, where you know I am,
Where everything appears as the night and chalky white,
Where the cliffs make me madder than ever;
I should look away.
The orange light from outside couldn’t have been any other colour
I can see it reflected off
The magnolia walls.
My loose ends in London hang like the heavy tassels of the hotel curtain tie-backs
Dover, they would have got lost amidst your shipping crates and cargo,
Where I would have brought them to see the sights except
There are none at night.
Envying another man’s happiness is madness; you wouldn’t know what to do with it if you had it.
- André Gide, The Immoralist (via written-in-prose)
I have lived in a kind of coma
- Malone Dies, Samuel Beckett
The fear of falling is the source of many a folly
- Malone Dies, Samuel Beckett
You bet your life
I’ll get even
I’ll call your name wrong
and you’ll think
Diane Di Prima
- where does dorian gray buy his clothes?
- at forever 21
It’s the pathos of people that gets us down, all the lovers in this dream
- Jazz of the Beat Generation, Jack Kerouac
the beauty of the dream vanished
- Frankenstein, Mary Shelley
What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.
- Walt Whitman (via mellifluousbookshelf)
It’s so hard to forget pain, but it’s even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.
- Chuck Palahniuk, Diary (via wordsalongathread)
Her hands shook as she tried to write prose, instead sputtering out poetry like a student’s boxy Nissan exhaust pipe. She pounded her chest with a horizontal fist, spitting out coughs instead of words. In a sudden burst of will she began typing but stalled, not being able to word quite-rightly how translucent clouds hover over the moon like damp paper to a desk lamp. Instead, she sought the unreal and resigned to shutting her eyes to dream.
She imagined she was crying, dampening her senses, letting only vague colours mar her mind. Her tears fell not in streams rolling down her cheek but as drops falling directly from her eyes and onto the ground. Less than twenty tears escaped and the room was already swelling to the brim. She paddled coolly, tracing a perfect square on the ceiling inches above her. All the while, her left hand was busy recording the adventure on a notepad held in place against her thigh by the pressure of the pen. The ink spread through the water, leaving a trail as she left.
Then she was led to the surface, and she washed up, face down, on the sandy grains of her mahogany desk. She set the sun, raising her empty page higher until it covered entirely the light that shone from the lamp. She had been asleep for less than ten minutes, and it was already crinkled, freshly dried.
I felt sorry when I came to the last page. I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig tree.
- Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar (via ransombookquotes)