One Of My Favorite Stories About Artemis Is That After She Required Agamemnon To Sacrifice His Daughter

This absence. This emptiness. This hollowness. This nothingness. I feel them too much.

Sophia Carey (via wordsnquotes)

There’s a graveyard inside my mouth because I buried all these words before they had a chance to leave my lips, and I promise I’ve tried to dig them out, but they’ve turned into skeletons that can’t make a sound.

Alexa Evangelista, the book i’ll never finish writing  (via vodkakilledtheteen)

“Years of love have been forgot, in the hatred of a minute.”

— Edgar Allan Poe

Requested! ENTP + Slytherin + Cancer + Daughter of Aphrodite (plus Fall Out Boy)

In that great discourse with the living dead which we call reading, our role is not a passive one. […] We engage the presence, the voice of the book. We allow it entry, though not unguarded, into our inmost. A great poem, a classic novel, press in upon us; they assail and occupy the strong places of our consciousness. They exercise upon our imagination and desires, upon our ambitions and most cover dreams, a strange, bruising mastery. Men who burn books know what they are doing. The artist is the uncontrollable force; no western eye, since Van Gogh, looks on a cypress without observing in it the start of a flame. So, and in supreme measure, it is with literature. A man who has read Book XXIV of the Iliad - the night meeting of Priam and Achielles - or the chapter in which Alyosha Karamazov kneels to the stars, who has raid Montaigne’s chapter XX (Que philosopher c'est apprendre à mourir) and Hamlet’s use of it - and who is not altered, whose apprehension of his own life is unchanged, who does not, in some subtle yet radical manner, look on the room in which he moves, on those that knock at the door, differently - has read only with the blindness of physical sight. […] To read well is to take great risks. It is to make vulernable our identity, our self possession. In the early stages of epilepsy there occurs a characteristic dream (Dostoyevsky tells of it). One is somehow lifted free of one’s own body; looking backbone sees oneself and feels a sudden, maddening fear; another presence is entering one’s own person, and there is no avenue of return. Feeling this fear, the mind gropes to a sharp awakening. So it should be when we take in hand a major work of literature or philosophy, of imagination or doctrine. It may come to possess us so completely that we go, for a spell, in fear of ourselves and in imperfect recognition. He who has read Kafka’s Metamorphosis and can look into his mirror unflinching may technically be able to read print, but is illiterate in the only sense that matters.

George Steiner, “Humane Literacy” from Language and Silence (via mesogeios)

50s Girl

My dream is to marry a man who treats me like a man would treat his wife in the 50s. Like his. Like I belong to him. And I want to be that stay-at-home wife who cooks meals and cleans the house and wears dresses every day. I want him to take me dancing. Not to some club but to somewhere nice. I want him to get angry when he thinks I’m flirting with someone else or that someone is flirting with me. I want him to be commanding and let me know who’s boss. I want him to show me off to all his buddies cause he wants to make them jealous. I want a man who’s proud to be my man and loves his little wife

"Grey time-worn marbles

Hold the pure Muses;

In their cool gallery,

By yellow Tiber,

They still look fair."

- Consolation by Matthew Arnold