Sevilmeyesi dunyada

sevdigim seyler.

Sep 19

It was as if I were continually capturing song-sparrows and bringing them home, only to find the following morning that they had become common sparrows overnight and their wild song had dwindled to a single chirp.

Then I would realize that it was my own fault-it was I who had made song-sparrows of them. Some chance trait or element in them had touched me off like a skyrocket, so that my imagination had soared, and my tongue with it, so that I had lifted us both up with words and carried us off to a place of pure light and air and green grass and running water. And there I had built us a castle full of light and air and promise and beauty.

Excerpt from Gordon Dickson’s Soldier, Ask Not.

Aug 16

“I keep thinking about this river somewhere, with the water moving really fast. And these two people in the water, trying to hold onto each other, holding on as hard as they can, but in the end it’s just too much. The current’s too strong. They’ve got to let go, drift apart. That’s how it is with us. It’s a shame, Kath, because we’ve loved each other all our lives. But in the end, we can’t stay together forever.” Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go (via bookmania)

Aug 15
“Do not all charms fly
At the mere touch of cold philosophy?
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:
We know her woof, her texture; she is given
In the dull catalogue of common things.
Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings,
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine—
Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made
The tender-person’d Lamia melt into a shade.”
Keats, John. Lamia Pt. II, l.229-238

Jul 25
“I sleep much less than Mary does. She says she needs a great deal of sleep and I agree that I need less but I am far from believing that. There is only so much energy stored in a body, augmented, of course, by foods. One can use it up quickly, the way some children gobble candy, or unwrap it slowly. There’s always a little girl who saves part of her candy and so has it when the gobblers have long since finished. I think my Mary will live much longer than I. She will have saved some of her life for later.” The Winter of Our Discontent, Steinbeck, p. 39

My wife, my Mary, goes to her sleep the way you would close the door of a closet. So many times I have watched her with envy. Her lovely body squirms a moment as though she fitted herself into a cocoon. She sighs once and at the end of it her eyes close and her lips, untroubled, fall into that wise and remote smile of the ancient Greek gods. She smiles all night in her sleep, her breath purrs in her throat, not a snore, a kitten’s purr. For a moment her temperature leaps up then drops and she has gone away. I don’t know where. She says she does not dream. She must, of course. That simply means her dreams do not trouble her, or trouble her so much that she forgets them before awakening. She loves to sleep and sleep welcomes her. I wish it were so with me. I fight off sleep, at the same time craving it.

I have thought the difference might be that my Mary knows she will live forever, that she will step from the living into another life as easily as she slips from sleep to wakefulness. She knows this with her whole body, so completely that she does not think of it any more than she thinks to breathe. Thus she has time to sleep, time to rest, time to cease to exist for a little.

On the other hand, I know in my bones and my tissue that I will one day, soon or late, stop living and so I fight against sleep, and beseech it, even try to trick it into coming. My moment of sleep is a great wrench, an agony. I know this because I have awakened at this second still feeling the crushing blow. And once in sleep, I have a very busy time. My dreams are the problems of the day stepped up to absurdity, a little like men dancing, wearing the horns and masks of animals.

The Winter of Our Discontent, Steinbeck, p.38-9

I honestly have no idea who painted this, but I’d appreciate it tons if anyone would enlighten me. This is rather perfect.

I honestly have no idea who painted this, but I’d appreciate it tons if anyone would enlighten me. This is rather perfect.


yama-bato:

Camille Claudel 1864-1943
Le Psaume (La Prière)/ The Psalm (The Prayer) 1889 
Bronze sculpture H. 45; L. 31,5; P. 38 cm
Musée Boucher-de-Perthes, Abbeville
Thanks to : http://idlespeculations-terryprest.blogspot.com

yama-bato:

Camille Claudel 1864-1943

Le Psaume (La Prière)/ The Psalm (The Prayer) 1889 

Bronze sculpture H. 45; L. 31,5; P. 38 cm

Musée Boucher-de-Perthes, Abbeville

Thanks to : http://idlespeculations-terryprest.blogspot.com

(via defterisk)


Pierre-Georges Jeanninot, 1897, Pink Camellia.

Pierre-Georges Jeanninot, 1897, Pink Camellia.


Lily, Jones Jeffrey.

Lily, Jones Jeffrey.


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