— Vladimir Nabokov, Letter To His Wife Véra

what a cruel joke it is, to love..

to. love.

M #43

you told me you wanted to stop because you were hurting me. but it's been four months, and i'm still crying, hurting, barely breathing.

some days progress feels as small as a single breath drawn in darkness - trembling, uncertain, barely there at all. but remember: even that whispered inhale is the universe continuing its ancient dance through your bones, even that fragile moment is your story refusing to end.

Eugenio Montale, from a poem titled "Dora Markus," featured in Selection of Modern Italian Poetry

― Vladimir Nabokov, Letter to his wife Véra

Leonard Cohen to Marianne Ihlen ("My darling Marianne"), [New York] 11 February 1963

Wislawa Szymborska, from "Funeral," featured in View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems

I know my sadness will pass if I do not cling to it so tightly