"For language to have meaning there must be intervals of silence somewhere, to divide word from word and utterance from utterance. He who retires into silence does not necessarily hate language. Perhaps it is love and respect for language which imposes silence upon him."
Thomas Merton, “Disputed Questions” (via litverve)
"What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music…. And people flock around the poet and say: ‘Sing again soon’ - that is, ‘May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful’."
Søren Kierkegaard. (via honey-nut-queerios)
"Philosophy, if it cannot answer so many questions as we could wish, has at least the power of asking questions which increase the interest of the world, and show the strangeness and wonder lying just below the surface even in the commonest things of daily life."
Bertrand Russell, The Problems of Philosophy (via fyp-philosophy)
"God help us — for art is long, and life so short."
Goethe, Faust (via sisyphean-revolt)
"Earlier you asked about my political and intellectual disposition and, mindful of context, I tried to answer honestly. But if you want to play it down to the quick, I suppose my deeper worldview can be reduced to a toxic blend of scientific materialism and deep pessimism. In other words, I allow that reality can be apprehended through reason and experience, but I think the conclusions that follow tend only to affirm our worst suspicions—that, to borrow Thomas Ligotti’s perfect phrase, the universe is not just meaningless, but malignantly useless."
Chip Smith (via blackestdespondency)
"Life is a garden, not a road. We enter and exit through the same gate. Wandering, where we go matters less than what we notice."
Kurt Vonnegut (via likeafieldmouse)
You say wind is only wind
& carries nothing nervous
in its teeth.
I do not believe it.
I have seen leaves desist
although the branches
move, & I
believe a cyclone has secrets
the weather is ignorant of.
in the violence of not knowing.
I’ve seen a river lose its course
& join itself again,
watched it court
a stream & coax the stream
into its current,
& I have seen
rivers, not unlike
you, that failed to find
their way back.
I believe the rapport
between water & sand, the advent
from mirror to face.
I believe in rain
to cover what mourns,
in hail that revives
& sleet that erodes, believe
is a figure of rain
& now I believe in torrents that take
everything down with them.
The sky calls it quits,
or so I believe,
when air, or earth, or air
has had enough.
I believe in disquiet,
the pressure it plies, believe a cloud
to govern the limits of night.
I say I,
but little is left to say it, much less
& yet I do.
Let there be
I do not believe
things are reborn in fire.
They’re consumed by fire
& the fire has a life of its own."
Andrew Zawacki, “Credo” (via heteroglossia)
"When a human dies the Soul moves through the galaxy
trying to describe how the Body breathed, how it cried for its mother,
how a wound would heal given nothing but time.
Do you understand? Nothing in space ever believes.
No ray of light can fathom the speed of terror, the heat of shame,
a belly full of butterflies, the fingertips pulling that first gray hair
and throwing it away.
‘How could we possibly believe in goose bumps,’ the stars say.
‘How could we possibly believe?’"
Andrea Gibson - Blushing (via cerealboxshakespeare)