credit

& other sashas

Sat, 26th of July 2014
You are, you know, you were the nearest thing to a real story to happen in my life.

— From Renata Adler’s Pitch Dark, a refrain.
Tue, 22nd of July 2014

notebookings:

What is one thing that you desire to say as a poet, but haven’t said yet? What does the future hold for you, if you could hold it?

Ocean Vuong: I don’t really know. I often find myself writing to the terrified versions of myself. And maybe all I really want to say—if anything at all—is that you (whoever you are) are not alone. Maybe because this is what some of the most important writers in my life have been telling me over and over again in their myriad and unique ways. I go back to the boy I once was, the boy who hid in the library during recces to read a book covered in his lap so no one will know he has betrayed “fun” for secrets. So no one will know he loves words. Because lovers of words were thought to be weak and effeminate. And effeminate boys were strange and strange things don’t last very long in this world. So I read to find my own hand in the pages of books. In the future, I want to keep holding books. To touch myself on each page, saying “I am here. I am here. I am here.”
Mon, 21st of July 2014
Is it always the same story, then? Somebody loves and somebody doesn’t, or loves less, or loves someone else. Or someone is a good soul and someone is a villain. And there are just these episodes, anecdotes, places, pauses, hailings of cabs, overcomings of obstacles, or instances of being overcome by them, illness, accidents, recoveries, wars, desires, welcomings, rebuffs, baskings (rare, not so long), pinings (more frequent, perhaps, and longer), actions, failures to act, hesitations, proliferations, endings of the line, until there is death.

— From Pitch Dark by Renata Adler.
Sun, 20th of July 2014
Hey wait.
Well, love after all is a habit like any other.
A habit, maybe. Like any other, no.

— From Pitch Dark by Renata Adler.
Sun, 20th of July 2014
Let me just mention people’s expression when they are bored by a confidence, or when their minds are elsewhere, or when they have been told it once already. Let me mention, too, a confidence of long ago, an intimacy, completely, as it turns out, misunderstood.

— From Pitch Dark by Renata Adler.
Sun, 20th of July 2014

From Pitch Dark by Renata Adler.

Sun, 20th of July 2014

From Pitch Dark by Renata Adler.

Sun, 20th of July 2014
You can rely too much, my love, on the unspoken things. And the wry smile. I have that smile myself, and I’ve learned the silence, too, over the years. Along with your expressions, like No notion and Of necessity. What happens, though, when it is all unsaid, is that you wake up one morning, no, it’s more like late one afternoon, and it’s not just unsaid, it’s gone. That’s all. Just gone. I remember this word, that look, that small inflection, after all this time. I used to hold them, trust them, read them like a rune. Like a sign that there was a house, a billet, a civilization where we were. I look back and I think I was just there all alone. Collecting wisps and signs.

— From Pitch Dark by Renata Adler.
Sat, 19th of July 2014

Detail of—.

Thu, 17th of July 2014

Today. [x]

self   |||| +1 note
Thu, 17th of July 2014

Some of last week. [x]

self   |||| +3 notes
Tue, 15th of July 2014
If your days get strange or boring this week, or if you can’t stop worrying about your world, you’re going to find deep wells of bravery inside of you. You’re going to find so much light. You’re going to find enough compassion to map your own way through the mountains, to make all the light that you need. You can be so kind to the people you love, this week. You can be so gentle with your own tender heart. You can be brave enough to believe in your own future, brave enough to believe things will be ok.

[x]
Sat, 12th of July 2014

Detail from Sunset in the Auvergne, Théodore Rousseau, 1844.

Sat, 12th of July 2014

bluecrowcafe:

Lionello Balestrieri, Woman on a Paris Street at Night, 1924.

Sat, 12th of July 2014

whenyouwereapostcard:

Edgar Degas, Melancholy, 1874.

Edgar Degas   art   |||| +993 notes