quotes – Green Violin Bow

rsiken:

“The head, the mouth, the fruit, the eating.
The pit, the teeth, the branch, the falling.
The wet, the swollen, the light, the seeing.
The picking, the washing, the cutting, the quartering.
The sweet, the having. The holding of it in your hands,
beautiful and then ruined. The forms of devouring. The remaining empty.
What’s inside. The excitement of the definite article. What’s inside
one thing is analogous to what’s inside another.
The ceremonial names of what is done to them. What is unknown requires a new way of cutting.
What we’re left with. How we make an object ours, make it disappear.
How we become an object and are food.
How we are delicious and dead at the center in so many ways.
How that is wrong and it is stillness, moon-like at the core.
How we are whatever reflects off it. How we are light produced earlier
by other things.”

— Catie Rosemurgy, “Peach,” The Stranger Manual

(via facinaoris)

why-does-hockey-hate-me:

Love people
as if they were cats,
in their character and their independance,
without trying to dominate them,
without trying to change them,
let them come when they please,
be glad
for their happiness.

Source: sorayabrightside

wieldingapen:

Why Bother?
Sean Thomas Dougherty

Because right now, there is
someone
out there with

a wound

in the exact shape
of your words.

[From “The Second O of Sorrow”]

rudyvitkauskas:

— “leonardo da vinci: flights of the mind.” by charles nicholl.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BpUhv5WlnNZ/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=3p0pgneq10tk

Source: rudyvitkauskas

devoursjohnlock:

“The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured to break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered, how objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel it.”

— Watson on
Watson, A Study in Scarlet (Arthur Conan Doyle, 1887)

medeae:

Wilfred Owen, from “Dulce et Decorum Est"

Source: medeae

nfrtjytj:

“A book is made from a tree. It is an assemblage of flat, flexible parts (still called “leaves”) imprinted with dark pigmented squiggles. One glance at it and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, the author is speaking, clearly and silently, inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people, citizens of distant epochs, who never knew one another. Books break the shackles of time ― proof that humans can work magic.”

— Carl Sagan (via amortizing)