"I am not good. I am not virtuous. I am not sympathetic. I am not generous. I am merely and above all a creature of intense passionate feeling. I feel—everything. It is my genius. It burns me like fire."

- Mary MacLane,I Await the Devil’s Coming  (via thatkindofwoman)

(via thatkindofwoman)

21 hours ago 9,260 notes


August 1,2011

Diary of a Dancer.by Elinor Carucci

2 weeks ago 1 note


As if you were on fire from within.

The moon lives in the lining of your skin.


- Pablo Neruda (via quotes-shape-us)

2 weeks ago 372 notes

"What is success? It is being able to go to bed each night with your soul at peace."

- Paulo Coelho, Manuscript Found In Accra (via florida-sounds)

(via arctic-bramble)

2 weeks ago 12,687 notes

"When I give, I give myself."

- Walt Whitman (via wheredidalltheashtraysgo)

(via wheredidalltheashtraysgo)

2 weeks ago 17,625 notes

"We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world."

- Jack Gilbert, from “A Brief Defense.” (via literarymiscellany)

2 weeks ago 58 notes


Inside the medevac helicopter in Afghanistan, U.S. Marine Cpl. Burness Britt bleeds profusely from his neck. He and two other Marines have just been hit by shrapnel, with Britt's injuries the most serious. The medevac crew chief clutches one of Britt's blood-covered hands as he is given oxygen. I take hold of the other.

With my free hand, I lift my camera and take some pictures. I squeeze Britt’s hand and he returns the gesture, gripping my palm tighter and tighter until he slips into unconsciousness. His shirt is ripped, but I notice a piece of wheat stuck to it. I pluck it off and tuck it away in the pocket of my body armor.

In my 20 years as a photographer, covering conflicts from Bosnia to Gaza to Iraq to Afghanistan, injured civilians and soldiers have passed through my life many times. None has left a greater impression on me than Britt.

I knew him only for a few minutes in that helicopter, but I believed we would meet again one day, and I hoped to give him that small, special piece of wheat.

As Britt underwent surgeries and painful rehabilitation, I returned to my job with The Associated Press, yet Britt was never far from my mind. I searched for him on the Internet. I called hospitals. I wondered if he remembered me.

A 2011 piece by Anja Niedringhaus on her search for a wounded Marine in Afghanistan. She was killed by an Afghan police officer while reporting in the country earlier today (via Yahoo News)

2 weeks ago 48 notes


Kylli Sparre

2 weeks ago 269 notes


But she
from the depths
of her bones

with genuine respect
for those that live
inside the body

inside the poem

the whiteness
around the words

that also wants to speak


- Elaine Equi, from “Ghost Text” in Decoy (via literarymiscellany)

(via poetfire)

2 weeks ago 99 notes


Why do I need a piece of paper to tell me my name?”

Not you. Not you, my dear, but everyone else. We need paper and computers so we don’t have to ask people their names or look them in the face”

Hanna (2011)
Joe Wright

(via excdus)

3 weeks ago 1,276 notes

"Men can starve from a lack of self-realization as much as they can from a lack of bread."

- Richard Wright, Native Son (via quotes-shape-us)

3 weeks ago 162 notes

"I’m sick to loathing of people who don’t care for the master-work, who set out as artists with no intention of producing it, who make no effort toward the best, who are content with publicity and the praise of reviewers. I think the worst betrayal you could make is to pretend for a moment that you are content with a parochial standard. You’re subsidized, you don’t have to placate the public at once…If one is going to print opinions that the public already agrees with, what is the use of printing ‘em at all? Good art can’t possibly be palatable all at once."

- Ezra Pound in a letter to Harriet Monroe, 1913 (via literarymiscellany)

(via literarymiscellany)

3 weeks ago 25 notes


Unluck. by Brooke DiDonato on Flickr.

3 weeks ago 622 notes

"The only environment the artist needs is whatever peace, whatever solitude, and whatever pleasure he can get at not too high a cost."

- William Faulkner (September 25, 1897–July 6, 1962), on writing – a fine addition to the collected wisdom of great writers. (via explore-blog)

(via explore-blog)

3 weeks ago 1,317 notes



Cristina Troufa

(via 319px)

4 weeks ago 39,374 notes