Latest Posts by moonmovement - Page 5
we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person.
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
the equable but confused light of a summer’s morning in which everything is seen but nothing is seen distinctly
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
‘It is equally vain,’ she thought, ‘for you to think you can protect me, or for me to think I can worship you.’
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. ‘Tis waking that kills us.
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
It is all an illusion (which is nothing against it, for illusions are the most valuable and nessecary of all things, and she who can create one is among the world’s greatest benefactors),
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
Nothing, however, can be more arrogant, though nothing is commoner than to assume that of Gods there is only one, and of religions none but the speaker’s.
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
Everything, in fact, was something else.
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
her eyes are pure stars, and her fingers, if they touch you, freeze you to the bone.
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
of loveliness in the snow and faithlessness in the flood;
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
burn like a meteor and leave no dust.
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
Still he looked; still he paused. It is these pauses that are our undoing.
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
The darkness was more compassionate to his swollen and violent heart.
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
those eyes which looked as if they had been fished from the bottom of the sea
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
Violence was all. The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went.
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
‘Agamemnon,’ Aeschylus (translated by Anne Carson)
Fragmentary Face of King Khafre
ca. 2520-2494 BCE | Old Kingdom, Egypt | Egyptian alabaster
“You want to know what it was like? It was like my whole life had a fever. Whole acres of me were on fire. The sun talked dirty in my ear all night. I couldn’t drive past a wheatfield without doing it violence. I couldn’t even look at a bridge. I used to go out in the brush sometimes, So far out there no one could hear me, And just burn. I felt all right then. I couldn’t hurt anyone else. I was just a pillar of fire. It wasn’t the burning so much as the loneliness. It wasn’t the loneliness so much as the fear of being alone. Christ look at you pouring from the rocks. You’re so cold you’re boiling over. You’ve got stars in your hair. I don’t want to be around you. I don’t want to drink you in. I want to walk into the heart of you And never walk back out.”
— Nico Alvarado, “Tim Riggins Speaks of Waterfalls” (via cannedheaven)
thinking about Kait Rokowski writing, "nothing ever ends poetically, it ends and we turn it into poetry. all that blood was never once beautiful. it was just red." and losing it
Rock paintings in the Chauvet Cave (France), some of the oldest cave paintings in the world.
They date back 30 – 32,000 years ago, from the Aurignacian tradition of the Upper Paleolithic. The cave was closed off by a rock fall around 20,000 years ago, and was rediscovered in 1994.
Some of the first photographs ever taken inside the Lascaux caves (France, 1947).
Fifty Days at Iliam: The Fire The Consumes All Before It
Cy Twombly, 1978
Oil, oil crayon, and graphite on canvas
Photo taken from the Philadelphia Museum of Art
we have / bartered away heaven, / in starry nights, in the apple / orchards of Paradise.
- Marina Tsvetaeva, We shall not escape Hell tr. Elaine Feinstein
how deeply faithless we are, which is
to say: how true we are to ourselves
- Marina Tsvetaeva
What fragments of her history live in my body?
- Heather Christle, The Crying Book
If I had a prayer, it would say, Let this not be a mirror to the past, nor a window to the future. Let each night be only itself.
- Heather Christle, The Crying Book
she taught me the poems of these death-facing women and I understood them to be my mothers.
- Heather Christle, The Crying Book
An attempt to intensify the horror by containing it in symmetry.
- Heather Christle, The Crying Book