Eternal in Me: return

I remember this scene almost everyday!

I remember that one day, when we were in a car tooling along at top speed, we crashed into a cyclist, an apparently very young and very pretty girl. Her head was almost totally ripped off by the wheels. For a long time, we were parked a few yards beyond without getting out, fully absorbed in the sight of the corpse. The horror and despair at so much bloody flesh, nauseating in part, and in part very beautiful, was fairly equivalent to our usual impression upon seeing one another.


- Georges Bataille, Story of the Eye (1928)

“
They thought death was worth it, but I Have a self to recover, a queen. Is …

Sent to you by do-l via Google Reader: “They thought death was worth
it, but I Have a self to recover, a queen. Is she dead, is she…” via
saturn rising on 4/13/10
“
They thought death was worth it, but I
Have a self to recover, a queen.
Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?

Now she is flying
More terrible than she ever was, red
Scar in the sky, red comet
Over the engine that killed her ——
The mausoleum, the wax house.
”

- From Stings, Sylvia Plath (via milktrees & neonmedusa)
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Things are, and human beings, gifts, and sacrifices are, animals and plants are, equipments and works are. - Heideger   crashinglybeautiful:liquidnight:Hengki Koentjoro [via Fantomatik] View high resolution

Things are, and human beings, gifts, and sacrifices are, animals and plants are, equipments and works are.

- Heideger

 

crashinglybeautiful:liquidnight:Hengki Koentjoro [via Fantomatik]

(Reblogged from crashinglybeautiful)
These days, one must fly - but where to? without wings, without an airplane, fly - without doubt: the footsteps have passed on, to no avail; they didn’t move the feet of the traveler along.   At every instant, one must fly - like eagles, like houseflies, like days must conquer the rings of Saturn and build new carillons there.   Shoes and pathways are no longer enough, the earth is no use anymore to the wanderer: the roots have already crossed through the night,   and you will appear on another planet, stubbornly transient, transformed in the end into poppies.     - Pablo Neruda, one hundred love sonnets   garconniere: (via ewryan)

These days, one must fly - but where to?

without wings, without an airplane, fly - without doubt:

the footsteps have passed on, to no avail;

they didn’t move the feet of the traveler along.

 

At every instant, one must fly - like

eagles, like houseflies, like days

must conquer the rings of Saturn

and build new carillons there.

 

Shoes and pathways are no longer enough,

the earth is no use anymore to the wanderer:

the roots have already crossed through the night,

 

and you will appear on another planet,

stubbornly transient,

transformed in the end into poppies.

 

 

- Pablo Neruda, one hundred love sonnets

 

garconniere: (via ewryan)

“
The psychological basis of the metropolitan type of individuality consists in the intensification of nervous stimulation which results from the swift and uninterrupted change of outer and inner stimuli. Man is a differentiating creature. His mind is stimulated by the difference between a momentary impression and the one which preceded it. Lasting impressions, impressions which differ only slightly from one another, impressions which take a regular and habitual course and show regular and habitual contrasts-all these use up, so to speak, less consciousness than does the rapid crowding of changing images, the sharp discontinuity in the grasp of a single glance, and the unexpectedness of onrushing impressions. These are the psychological conditions which the metropolis creates.
Georg Simmel, The Metropolis and Mental Life (via invisiblestories)
(Reblogged from invisiblestories)

On life and living

It seems to me that the only way one can be helpful is to extend one’s hand to someone else involuntarily, and without ever knowing how useful this will be. If love becomes all it can be through willpower, willpower can achieve even more when one wants to help. But the gods alone can procure help, and when they make use of us to accomplish their acts of charity they like to plunge us into impenetrable anonymity.

- Rilke, Letters on Life

My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me. Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.    What are you thinking of? What thinking?          What? I never know what you are thinking. Think. - T.S Eliot, A Game of Chest, The Waste Land View high resolution

My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.

Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.

   What are you thinking of? What thinking?

         What?

I never know what you are thinking. Think.

- T.S Eliot, A Game of Chest, The Waste Land

“
Of course, the movements have meanings behind them. If we were sure of the meanings, we would not need the dance. There is a great danger in trying to interpret the dance in words. Words get between us and the dance and the meaning behind the dance — just one more thing between us and the meaning. One must dance the dance and go through it to the meaning.
Dorothy Bryant, The Kin of Ata are Waiting For You (via rebirth-through-adaptation & clothedinsky) (via crashinglybeautiful)
(Reblogged from crashinglybeautiful)
232 Dreams._ We have no dreams at all or intresting ones. We should learn to awake the same way - not at all or in an interesting manner. Nietzsche, Seventy-Five Aphorisms

232

Dreams._

We have no dreams at all or intresting ones. We should learn to awake the same way - not at all or in an interesting manner.

Nietzsche, Seventy-Five Aphorisms