There is something at the bottom of every new human thought, every thought of genius, or even every earnest thought that springs up in any brain, which can never be communicated to others, even if one were to write volumes about it and were explaining one’s idea for thirty-five years; there’s something left which cannot be induced to emerge from your brain, and remains with you forever; and with it you will die, without communicating to anyone perhaps the most important of your ideas. Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot (via whyallcaps)

(via lucid--daydreaming)

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A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a love sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words. Robert Frost (via observando)
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But a mermaid has no tears, and therefore she suffers so much more. Hans Christian Andersen, The Little Mermaid (via kushandwizdom)
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It is a terrible thing
To be so open: it is as if my heart
Put on a face and walked into the world. Sylvia Plath, “Three Women” (via larmoyante)
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My weakness has always been to prefer the large intention of an unskilful artist to the trivial intention of an accomplished one: in other words, I am more interested in the high ideas of a feeble executant than in the high execution of a feeble thinker. Thomas Hardy (via writingquotes)
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I felt like crying but nothing came out. it was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad, when you can’t feel any worse. I think you know it. I think everybody knows it now and then. but I think I have known it pretty often, too often. Charles Bukowski, Tales of Ordinary Madness (via loveandeloquence)

(via thefadedlight)

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I am wind
In a zinc bucket.

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