theparisreview:

Gay Talese’s outline for “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold,” 1966, written on a shirt board.

theparisreview:

Gay Talese’s outline for “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold,” 1966, written on a shirt board.

"It all comes back. Perhaps it is difficult to see the value in having one’s self back in that kind of mood, but I do see it; I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were. I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be; one of them, a seventeen-year-old, presents little threat, although it would be of some interest to me to know again what it feels like to sit on a river levee drinking vodka-and-orange-juice and listening to Les Paul and Mary Ford and their echoes sing “How High the Moon” on the car radio. (You see I still have the scenes, but I no longer perceive myself among those present, no longer could even improvise the dialogue.) The other one, a twenty-three-year-old, bothers me more. She was always a good deal of trouble, and I suspect she will reappear when I least want to see her, skirts too long, shy to the point of aggravation, always the injured party, full of recriminations and little hurts and stories I do not want to hear again, at once saddening me and angering me with her vulnerability and ignorance, an apparition all the more insistent for being so long banished." Joan Didion, from “On Keeping a Notebook” (via commovente)
"Personally, I’m a mess of conflicting impulses—I’m independent and greedy and I also want to belong and share and be a part of the whole. I doubt that I’m the only one who feels this way. It’s the core of monster making, actually. Wanna make a monster? Take the parts of yourself that make you uncomfortable—your weaknesses, bad thoughts, vanities, and hungers—and pretend they’re across the room. It’s too ugly to be human. It’s too ugly to be you. Children are afraid of the dark because they have nothing real to work with. Adults are afraid of themselves.
Oh we’re a mess, poor humans, poor flesh—hybrids of angels and animals, dolls with diamonds stuffed inside them We’ve been to the moon and we’re still fighting over Jerusalem. Let me tell you what I do know: I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good. The truth is complicated. It’s two-toned, multi-vocal, bittersweet. I used to think that if I dug deep enough to discover something sad and ugly, I’d know it was something true. Now I’m trying to dig deeper."
Richard Siken, Spork Editor’s Pages: Black Telephone (via cartographe)
cartographe
moon-sylph:

☽ ⁎ ˚ * ☀ Mystique, autumn, nature ✵ ⁎ * ☾
Flickr / anniesannuals

moon-sylph:

☽ ⁎ ˚ * ☀ Mystique, autumn, nature ✵ ⁎ * ☾

cashmeremammoth

cashmeremammoth:

space witches

"we ourselves are made of star dust"
(carl sagam)

they find can understand the movements of the planets, interpret the darkest creases of the night sky. they find themselves aglow with starlight.

glamouroushollywood
"She was terribly beautiful, yes. I could describe the birth of a star and her in the very same sentence." Beau Taplin, The Wild Heart (via weirdhunny)
afadthatlastsforever
spiritbreather:

ooooo~~
feather-haired

spiritbreather:

ooooo~~

mockingjalie

mockingjalie:

Serena’s beauty was like certain laws of math and physics, fixed and immutable. She walks in beauty. Words recited years ago in a voice dry as the chalk dust choking the classroom’s air, part of a poem Pemberton had paid attention to only so he might laugh at its sentiment. But now he knew the truth of the words, for Serena’s beauty was like that—something the world opened a guarded space around so it could go forth unsullied.



I’ve been spending the last eight months, thinking all love ever does is break, burn and end.
theasqueen

I’ve been spending the last eight months, thinking all love ever does is break, burn and end.

"Truth, she thought. As terrible as death. But harder to find." Philip K. Dick, The Man in the High Castle (via quoted-books)
"Words were different when they lived inside of you." Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe (via wordsnquotes)
wordsnquotes.com
theunlockingtheliftaway
"

She was like sunlight, you could never really catch it, or hold onto it, you simply had to sit in its rays until it was no longer there; and that was the thing, when she was gone, it became rather cold again.

I always wondered how sad the moon must be, knowing only those who sleep, and never truly meeting the one thing that mad him shine; now I know, now I know why the moon looks so sad.

"
T.B. LaBerge // Why Did I Fall in Love with the Sun? (via tblaberge)
tblaberge
»
Sweet&Vintage
Emilie
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