“A being that goes on two legs and is ungrateful.” by Man, according to Dostoevsky (via invisiblestories)

“In the desert the idea of death pursues us, and, strange to say, it is not sad.” by André Gide, Journal 4-7-1896 (adapted from panoramicchrestomathy) + (via mythologyofblue)

(via mythologyofblue)

“In one way, causeless emotion reminds me of melancholy: when we have sorrows without a name.” by Mary Ruefle, Madness, Rack, and Honey (via mythologyofblue)

“Man has reached the moon, but twenty centuries ago a poet knew the enchantments that would make the moon come down to earth. Ultimately, what is the difference?” by Julio Cortázar (via mythologyofblue)

(via invisiblestories)

“Now writing is just working your way toward the border that the innermost secret draws around itself, and to cross that line would mean self-destruction. But writing is also an attempt to respect the borderline only for the truly innermost secret, and bit by bit to free the taboos around that core, difficult to admit as they are, from their prison of unspeakability. Not self-destruction but self-redemption. Not being afraid of unavoidable suffering.” by Christa Wolf, City of Angels or Overcoat of Dr. Freud (via mythologyofblue)

“We drew our heavy revolvers (suddenly in the dream there were revolvers) and exultantly killed the gods.” by Jorge Luis Borges, “Ragnarök” (trans. Andrew Hurley)

(Source: iwanderedinadesertplace, via renardz)

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