"The persona is a complicated system of relations between individual consciousness and society, fittingly enough a kind of mask, designed on the one hand to make a definite impression upon others, and, on the other, to conceal the true nature of the individual. That the latter function is superfluous could be maintained only by one who is so identified with his persona that he no longer knows himself; and that the former is unnecessary could only occur to one who is quite unconscious of the true nature of his fellows."
Carl Jung, The Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious (via cerebral-dissonance)
Costumes Exchanging Glances by Mary Jo Bang
The rhinestone lights blink off and on. Pretend stars. I’m sick of explanations. A life is like Russell said of electricity, not a thing but the way things behave. A science of motion toward some flat surface, some heat, some cold. Some light can leave some after-image but it doesn’t last. Isn’t that what they say? That and that historical events exchange glances with nothingness.
"But every so often something shatters like ice and we are in the river of our existence. We are aware."
Louise Erdrich, The Plague of Doves, (with thanks to @riskywiver)
"One can sometimes
touch, in the distance between two people,
a moment of another person’s endless dream."
Yves Bonnefoy, from In the Shadow’s Light
trans. John Naughton (University of Chicago Press, 1990)
"His years had reduced and polished him as water does a stone or the generations of man do a sentence."
"The South" by Jorge Luis Borges (via thebooksremindus)
"If you can think of times in your life that you’ve treated people with extraordinary decency and love, and pure uninterested concern, just because they were valuable as human beings. The ability to do that with ourselves. To treat ourselves the way we would treat a really good, precious friend. Or a tiny child of ours that we absolutely loved more than life itself. And I think it’s probably possible to achieve that. I think part of the job we’re here for is to learn how to do it."
David Foster Wallace (via acherive)
"In this world
love has no color
yet how deeply my body
is stained by yours"
Izumi Shikibu, Diaries of Court Ladies of Old Japan: Murasaki Shikibu and Others (Dover, 2003)
"How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words."
David Foster Wallace, The Pale King (via mofobian)
Desribe a Wound
Wound as bells falling off shelves,
As the fuck that couldn’t, as the knife that split the tongue,
As the wine that is blood
As the night the candles burnt your leg
As the silence when the moan became more then a moan
When the moan became the jar breaking beneath the heel
as rust and rust breaking the garden
the garden where the open artery is buried
the artery that twitches on your lips
the lips a wound, a wound that whispers
the whisper that is
"My parents died years ago. I was very close to them. I still miss them terribly. I know I always will. I long to believe that their essence, their personalities, what I loved so much about them, are - really and truly - still in existence somewhere. […] Plainly, there’s something within me that’s ready to believe in life after death. And it’s not the least bit interested in whether there’s any sober evidence for it. So I don’t guffaw at the woman who visits her husband’s grave and chats him up every now and then, maybe on the anniversary of his death. It’s not hard to understand. And if I have difficulties with the ontological status of who she’s talking to, that’s all right. That’s not what this is about. This is about humans being human."
~ Carl Sagan, on why sometimes it’s good to temporarily forgo your beliefs in order to respect someone else’s (via itsinthestars)