IN MY ARMS: Embraces In Art

“All you do is think. Because all you do is think, you’ve constructed two separate worlds—one inside your head and one outside. Just the fact that you tolerate this enormous dissonance—why, that’s a great intangible failure already.”

—

Natsume Sōseki, And Then

“ Apprehensible, yet invisible (that is, nothing), blue shares something with olfaction […] In about 1700, before Novalis and his blue flower, before Goethe and [Werther’s] blue-coat-yellow-vest, Bernard Perrot made a blue-glass scent bottle in the shape of a deeply moulded scallop shell. Its metal stopper is connected by a silvery chain. The back of the bottle is flat with a moulded design of a sun(flower). A paradox of blue: the bottle is both the shell from below, from the deep blue sea and as the sun from above in the clear blue sky […] a Janus head of sorts.” (Carol Mavor, “A Foggy Lullaby”, Blue Mythologies)

Bernard Perrot, Blue Glass Perfume Bottle, c. 1700, Orléans

Jill Osier, “Small Town”

[text ID: Listen. The rug is wet because I stood here. Because it started pouring. Because your door was open and I was under a tree. Because it was raining. Because the rain and tree both were in your backyard. Because so was I. Because you weren’t home. Because I knew you were bowling. Because  I walk your road. Because your road goes by your house. Because I felt like a walk. Because it was going to rain. Because your door is never locked.]

Idk if u write, but what would u recommend to a young writer who’s not yet found her own ‘tone’ / voice or character in writing. What I mean is, I love writing… every time I read a certain author I then adopt their pen’s character, I write like them. If I read Plath I’ll go write like her bc I’m inspired. If I read Dostoevsky I’ll go write like him. Idk if it’s necessarily bad bc I think it’s pretty cool to achieve such voices (if they r achieved indeed) or should I just try to find mine? & How?

Hi anon, yes I write but only for myself. It's a sort of therapy for me, I'm definitely not a good writer. So maybe I'm not the right person to answer this question. Anyway, in your message you mentioned Plath and Dostoevsky, I think it's pretty normal to mistake the big impact that this artists can have on you and on your soul with your conviction that you are "copying" them. You already have your voice, it's the way you see the world, the way you perceive things, the way you talk in your head ― the language you speak to yourself everyday.

Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

she called herself "unimaginative". She tormented herself with this thoughts. It's just impossible to believe for us, but she was just like you, just like us.

Don't give up🤍

LIVING THROUGH MEMORIES.

thomas campbell // suzanne collins, gregor and the code of claw // czesław miłosz, the issa valley // vladimir nabokov // antonio porchia // l.m. montgomery, the story girl

musings on selfhood

1. Marya Hornbacher, Madness: A Bipolar Life / 2. Su Xinyu / 3. Clarice Lispector, The Stream of Life / 4. Su Xinyu / 5. Clarice Lispector, A Breath of Life / 6. Su Xinyu / 7. Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being / 8. Delfina Karmona / 9. Andrés Cerpa, The Vault / 10. Delfina Karmona / 11. Emily Dickinson / 12. Delfina Karmona / 13. Clarice Lispector, A Breath of Life

˗ˏˋ☕ˎˊ˗

“A nymph came pirouetting, under white Rotating petals, in a vernal rite To kneel before an altar in a wood Where various articles of toilette stood.”

— Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire (via starpleiades)

a prayer

Les Félins (René Clément), Days of Being Wild (Wong Kar Wai), Malcolm T. Liepke, Gustav Vigeland (Eros and Psyche), Stephan Sinding (Adoration), Soul Eom (kiss, hug and die)

“the morning blueness, chaste, not yet dried of its nighttime tears…”

— Yevgeny Zamyatin, We (trans. Natasha Randall)

from Loneliness: coping with the gap where friends used to be by Olivia Laing for The Guardian

[Text ID: Last night, I ate dinner with my friend Jenny. In real life, on a warm London evening, forking up aubergine from the same plate. We laughed, shared family news, told each other the things we’d been worrying over. At home, alone in my study, they’d felt insurmountable, a sign that something was irredeemably wrong with me. Under the gentle scrutiny of my friend, they diminished to a normal size: just the grit of everyday traffic with other humans. I walked home feeling buoyant, nearly invincible. I need my friends. I bet you need yours.]