honeycoquelicot:

“Dejaré mi boca entre tus piernas,
mi alma en fotografías y azucenas,
y en las ondas oscuras de tu andar
quiero, amor mío, amor mío, dejar,
violín y sepulcro, las cintas del vals.”

I will leave my mouth between your legs,
my soul in photographs and lilies,
and in the dark waves of your footsteps,
my love, my love, I will have to leave
violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons. 

Federico García Lorca - Pequeño vals Vienés

trajedies:

“I’m glad that you are platonically in love. That’s one of the best ways—”

— Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Julian Bell written c. December 1935 (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via leonardodcvinci)

Vergilius

But onward, uncertain, I’m carried by my fate.

(via labentiasidera)

violentwavesofemotion:

“There is a moment in the life of Rimbaud when he comes to realize that he is a poet, but that it is not his fault. He writes: “It is wrong to say, ‘I think.’ One has to say, ‘I am thought.’ I is another. Too bad for the wood that finds itself a violin.” 

For me, that tells all. I haven’t studied the lives of the mystics as closely as I have the lives of the artists but I do see the correspondences. The life of the artist may not be apparently monastic, or holy, but there is the same sense of sacrifice, of vocation, of having been entrusted with something greater and dearer than one’s own happiness. Imagine! To hold something more dear than one’s own happiness. That cannot be a voluntary thing. We want, as much as we can, to be happy. Isn’t this true? Yet there are these strange, luminous creatures who recognize that there is something to which they must submit, in order to be fully realized. It is the wood finding itself a violin. 

Kafka is another. Another artist as mystic. Another who recognizes this affinity. In his journal he writes, “This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces. And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me.” Again, the calling. Again the gift-slash-curse privileged. The whole life structured toward developing the necessary faculties, the necessary conditions.”

Yahia Lababidi, from “The Wood That Finds Itself A Violin,” wr. c. 2008 (x)

a-quiet-green-agreement:

“Where was I? Did I wake or sleep? Had I been dreaming? Did I dream still?”

– Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

(via athenaefilia)