Knowing how to be solitary is central to the art of loving. When we can be alone, we can be with others without using them as a means of escape.
In a sense, I’m the one who ruined me: I did it myself.
I think there is beauty in everything. What ‘normal’ people would perceive as ugly, I can usually see something of beauty in it.
I want to know what passion is. I want to feel something strongly.
I want you to come live with me, and die with me, and everything with me.
Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita (via diluvie)
What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination. When the sky outside is merely pink, and the rooftops merely black: the photographic mind which paradoxically tells the truth, but the worthless truth, about the world…If I sit still and don’t do anything, the world goes on beating like a slack drum, without meaning. We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine: it is that kind of madness which is worst: the kind with fancies and hallucinations would be a bosch-ish relief.
Sylvia Plath, “Cambridge Notes (February 1956)” (via larmoyante)
I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.
I love the person I’ve become, because I fought to become her.