This is my personal collection of quotes and other bookish tidbits.
Install Theme
Life is not light, but refracted colour.

— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

The stain of love
Is upon the world.

William Carlos Williams: from A Love Song

To have a thought, there must be an object—
the field is empty, sloshed with gold, a hayfield thick
with sunshine. There must be an object so land
a man there, solid on his feet, on solid ground, in
a field fully flooded, enough light to see him clearly,

the light on his skin and bouncing off his skin.
He’s easy to desire since there’s not much to him,
vague and smeary in his ochers, in his umbers,
burning in the open field. Forget about his insides,
his plumbing and his furnaces, put a thing in his hand

and be done with it. No one wants to know what’s
in his head. It should be enough. To make something
beautiful should be enough. It isn’t. It should be.
The smear of his head—I paint it out, I paint it in
again. I ask it what it wants. I want to be a cornerstone,

says the head. Let’s kill something. Land a man in a
landscape and he’ll try to conquer it. Make him
handsome and you’re a fascist, make him ugly and
you’re saying nothing new. The conqueror suits up
and takes the field, his horse already painted in

beneath him. What do you do with a man like that?
While you are deciding, more men ride in. The hand
sings weapon. The mind says tool. The body swerves
in the service of the mind, which is evidence of
the mind but not actual proof. More conquerors.

They swarm the field and their painted flags unfurl.
Crown yourself with leaves and stake your claim
before something smears up the paint. I turned away
from darkness to see daylight, to see what would
happen. What happened? What does a man want?

Power. The men spread, the thought extends. I paint
them out, I paint them in again. A blur of forces.
Why take more than we need? Because we can.
Deep footprint, it leaves a hole. You’d break your
heart to make it bigger, so why not crack your skull

when the mind swells. A thought bigger than your
own head. Try it. Seriously. Cover more ground.
I thought of myself as a city and I licked my lips.
I thought of myself as a nation and I wrung my hands,
I put a thing in your hand. Will you defend yourself?

From me, I mean. Let’s kill something. The mind
moves forward, the paint layers up: glop glop and
shellac. I shovel the color into our faces, I shovel our
faces into our faces. They look like me. I move them
around. I prefer to blame others, it’s easier. King me.

Richard Siken: Landscape with a Blur of Conquerors

bookishmadness:

There are books that you like, books that you fall in love with and then there are books that make you wish to be turned into a word, a comma or a full stop just so you can be part of it.

(via shewasascar)

womenreading:

Walking in the mountain (by 鹰婕Jane)

womenreading:

Walking in the mountain (by 鹰婕Jane)

exvind:

scribblingbearcat:

kammartinez:

Author John Scalzi was on a roll this morning (currently 7:14 AM, 26 Sept. 2014) with a tweet he found from some guy sending out an “ultimatum” to women to “make a choice” between feminism and, well, men like him. So Scalzi launched into a truly magnificent set of scorchers, which I’m posting here for the delectation of people everywhere.

Also: I would like to thank that guy for setting the ultimatum. It makes finding a boyfriend so much easier when the undesirable ones wear a placard identifying themselves.

DAMN SON

There is no problem that sass cannot solve

(via janedrewfinally)

aseaofquotes:

— Pablo Neruda

aseaofquotes:

— Pablo Neruda

(via aseaofquotes)

A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he’s still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he’s still left with his hands.

Richard Siken: from Boot Theory 

vintageanchorbooks:

Celebrate Banned Books Week by reading a banned book.

vintageanchorbooks:

Celebrate Banned Books Week by reading a banned book.

(via possessedbybooks)

I swallow your heart and it crawls right out of my mouth.

Richard Siken: from Dirty Valentine