"I wish every action was recorded and we could have a little Google bar to search ourselves, find out what we said last time in response to what."
―Stephen Elliott, The Adderall Diaries
―Stephen Elliott, The Adderall Diaries
"Book collecting is an obsession, an occupation, a disease, an addiction, a fascination, an absurdity, a fate. It is not a hobby. Those who do it must do it. Those who do not do it, think of it as a cousin of stamp collecting, a sister of the trophy cabinet, bastard of a sound bank account and a weak mind."
―Jeanette Winterson (via tacit-delinquency)
―Jeanette Winterson (via tacit-delinquency)
"Wallowing is sex for depressives."
―Jeanette Winterson, from: Written on the Body
―Jeanette Winterson, from: Written on the Body
"Just once in my life—oh, when have I ever wanted anything just once in my life?"
―Amy Hempel (via holdonmagnolia)
―Amy Hempel (via holdonmagnolia)
"Goodbye, closing credits and kissing
till the lights came up.
Farewell, feathers and patchouli, slowdancing and waterbeds,
which I worshipped like Stations of the Cross.
Stickiness and soapslide, all that gliding and lingering:
goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
Adios, palm-ache and saddle-ache and you, too, rugburn.
Au revoir, opera gloves, black satin swallowing the elbow,
toasts and braggadocio, pearls sliding
from their silky thread.
Goodbye, sheer persimmon shawl
and “That’s a hell of a hello:”
So long, frontseat, against-the-wall, on-the-stairs.
How I’ll miss you, backdoor and garter belts,
hosannas of gratitude and hymns of praise.
Can I hide my myrrh like a Magdalene?
Jasmine and cinnamon, wildest honey:
perfumes I won’t break at your feet."
―Karen Kovacik, Elegy For My Sex Life (via grammatolatry)
till the lights came up.
Farewell, feathers and patchouli, slowdancing and waterbeds,
which I worshipped like Stations of the Cross.
Stickiness and soapslide, all that gliding and lingering:
goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
Adios, palm-ache and saddle-ache and you, too, rugburn.
Au revoir, opera gloves, black satin swallowing the elbow,
toasts and braggadocio, pearls sliding
from their silky thread.
Goodbye, sheer persimmon shawl
and “That’s a hell of a hello:”
So long, frontseat, against-the-wall, on-the-stairs.
How I’ll miss you, backdoor and garter belts,
hosannas of gratitude and hymns of praise.
Can I hide my myrrh like a Magdalene?
Jasmine and cinnamon, wildest honey:
perfumes I won’t break at your feet."
―Karen Kovacik, Elegy For My Sex Life (via grammatolatry)
"Book collecting is an obsession, an occupation, a disease, an addiction, a fascination, an absurdity, a fate. It is not a hobby. Those who do it must do it. Those who do not do it, think of it as a cousin of stamp collecting, a sister of the trophy cabinet, bastard of a sound bank account and a weak mind."
―Jeanette Winterson
―Jeanette Winterson
"I can see myself years back at Sunion,
hurting with an infected foot, Philoctetes
in woman’s form, limping the long path,
lying on a headland over the dark sea,
looking down the red rocks to where a soundless curl
of white told me a wave had struck,
imagining the pull of that water from that height,
knowing deliberate suicide wasn’t my métier,
yet all the time nursing, measuring that wound.
Well, that’s finished. The woman who cherished
her suffering is dead. I am her descendant.
I love the scar-tissue she handed on to me,
but I want to go on from here with you
fighting the temptation to make a career of pain."
―Adrienne Rich, 21 Love Poems, VIII
(via mrsdalloway)
hurting with an infected foot, Philoctetes
in woman’s form, limping the long path,
lying on a headland over the dark sea,
looking down the red rocks to where a soundless curl
of white told me a wave had struck,
imagining the pull of that water from that height,
knowing deliberate suicide wasn’t my métier,
yet all the time nursing, measuring that wound.
Well, that’s finished. The woman who cherished
her suffering is dead. I am her descendant.
I love the scar-tissue she handed on to me,
but I want to go on from here with you
fighting the temptation to make a career of pain."
―Adrienne Rich, 21 Love Poems, VIII
(via mrsdalloway)
