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spring is coming. Spring IS COMING. You will stand on soft grass again, and feel the sun kiss your cheeks and shoulders. you will eat of the same berries as the animals returned from their hibernation. you will hear the air alive with your collective breathing.

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— Jenny Slate, Little Weirds

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How Animals Mourn

Anguish by August Friedrich Schenk † The Dead Miner (Mourning the Master) by Charles Christian Nahl † The Faithful Hound by sir Edwin Henry Landseer RA † The Orphan. A Memory of Auvergne by August Friedrich Schenk

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—Andrea Gibson, "Good Light," Lord of the Butterflies

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Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath; entry no. 102

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“He had looked at Jude, then, and had felt the same sensation he sometimes did when he thought, really thought of Jude and what his life had been: a sadness,he might have called it,but it wasn’t a pitying sadness; it was a larger sadness,one that seemed to encompass all the poor striving people, the billions he didn’t know, all living their lives, a sadness that mingled with a wonder and awe at how hard humans everywhere tried to live, even when their days were so very difficult,even when their circumstances were so wretched.Life is so sad, he would think in those moments. It’s so sad, and yet we all do it. We all cling to it; we all search for something to give us solace.”

- A Little Life,Hanya Yaganihara.

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“How fast,how distressingly fast, had their instinct for fear been reawakened, the fear itself a virus that lay dormant but that they would never be able to permanently dispel. Joyfulness, abandon: they had had to relearn those, they had had to re-earn them. But they would never have to relearn fear; it would live within the three of them, a shared disease, a shimmery strand that had woven itself through their DNA.”

- A Little Life, Hanya Yanagihara.

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“Wasn’t it a miracle that someone who was basically unexceptional could live a life in which he made millions pretending to be other people, that in that life people would fly from city to city, would spend his days having his every need fulfilled, working in artificial contexts in which he was treated like the potentate of a small, corrupt country? Wasn’t it a miracle to be adopted at thirty, to find people who loved you so much that they wanted to call you their own? Wasn’t it a miracle to have survived the unsurvivable? Wasn’t friendship its own miracle, the finding of another person who made the entire lonely world seem somehow less lonely? Wasn’t this house, this beauty, this comfort, this life a miracle? And so who could blame him for hoping for one more, for hoping that despite knowing better, that despite biology, and time, and history, that they would be the exception, that what happened to other people with Jude’s sort of injury wouldn’t happen to him, that even with all that Jude had overcome, he might overcome just one more thing?”

- A Little Life, Hanya Yaganihara

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— via letsbelonelytogetherr

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— Jay Vespertine

Text ID: “Maybe in a parallel universe i was not betrayed so poetically.”

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“But he kept his life moving along. He got up, he went to work. He simultaneously craved company, so he wouldn’t think of Caleb, and dreaded it,because Caleb had reminded him how inhumane was, how deficient, how disgusting, and he was to embarrassed to be around other people, normal people. He though of his days the way he thought of taking steps when he was experiencing the pain and numbness in his feet: he would get through one, and the next, he would learn how to fold those months into his life and accept them and keep going. He always had”

- Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life.

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“He liked the mere act of reading, the magic of turning scratches on a page into words inside his head.” ― John Green, An Abundance of Katherines.

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"The Brothers Karamazov", Fyodor Dostoevsky (translated by Constance Garnett)

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— Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

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"Beautiful Losers", Leonard Cohen