Gay Talese’s outline for “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold,” 1966, written on a shirt board.
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)
"we ourselves are made of star dust"
they find can understand the movements of the planets, interpret the darkest creases of the night sky. they find themselves aglow with starlight.
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.
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)