othersashas

[othersashas]

la collectionneuse (1967) / anne sexton

[othersashas]

Charlotte Brontë, from “Jane Eyre”

[othersashas]

the night and its slow blood,

Anne Sexton, The Death Notebooks; from 'Hurry Up Please It's Time'

[othersashas]

By Evie Cahir.

The third spread in this small collection of pages about ‘Days Off’. This one is about napping vs. wanting to nap. 

[othersashas]

I think when you are truly stuck, when you have stood still in the same spot for too long, you throw a grenade in exactly the spot you were standing in, and jump, and pray. It is the momentum of last resort.

From Speedboat, by Renata Adler.

[othersashas]

Anna Valdez, on Tumblr

[othersashas]

“It happens to me frequently. You disappear? Yes and then come back.”

— Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

[othersashas]

“…because what isn’t shared ceases to seem quite real, perhaps even ceases to be real.”

— Pat Barker, The Silence of the Girls

[othersashas]

“We looked at each other, afraid to speak, afraid to load our feelings into words in case the words cracked and split. I pinned my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Hold in, hold in, one crack and the wall is breached.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Gut Symmetries

[othersashas]

Not bad for a girl with no serotonin.

[othersashas]

Is it always the same story, then? Somebody loves and somebody doesn’t, or loves less, or loves someone else. Or someone is a good soul and someone is a villain. And there are just these episodes, anecdotes, places, pauses, hailings of cabs, overcomings of obstacles, or instances of being overcome by them, illness, accidents, recoveries, wars, desires, welcomings, rebuffs, baskings (rare, not so long), pinings (more frequent, perhaps, and longer), actions, failures to act, hesitations, proliferations, endings of the line, until there is death.

From Pitch Dark, by Renata Adler.

[othersashas]

Weak desires protect you from disappointment. But nothing keeps you safer than being a visible ruin.

Fanny Howe, Indivisible. (via batarde)

[othersashas]

I’ve missed you, [he] said, and my heart jumped at the pleasure of existing in someone else’s life

Olivia Laing, Lonely in Manhattan (via gnossienne)

[othersashas]

KiKi Smith

[othersashas]

I want to be loved unreasonably by an unreasonable love because we’ve nearly drowned in the poison of reasonable loving, reasonable liking, reasonable living, reasonable essays, reasonable art and reasonable political discourse.

Kiese Laymon (via thesmithian)

[othersashas]

Who is the real subject of most love poems? Not the beloved. It is the hole. When I desire you, a part of me is gone: my want of you partakes of me. So reasons the lover at the edge of eros. The presence of want awakens in him nostalgia for wholeness. His thoughts turn toward questions of personal identity: he must recover and reincorporate what is gone if he is to be a complete person. […] Most people find something disturbingly lucid and true in Aristophanes’ image of lovers as people cut in half. All desire is for a part of oneself gone missing, or so it feels to the person in love.

Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet: An Essay.

[othersashas]

“Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell” by Marty McConnell