Carmela Ciuraru, “The Story of the Story of O.”
Later she described her feverish writing process as “writing the way you speak in the dark to the person you love when you’ve held back the words of love for too long and they flow at last … without hesitation, without stopping, rewriting, discarding … the way one breathes, the way one dreams.”
Art from Guido Crepax’s graphic novel adaptation of The Story of O.

Carmela Ciuraru, “The Story of the Story of O.”

Later she described her feverish writing process as “writing the way you speak in the dark to the person you love when you’ve held back the words of love for too long and they flow at last … without hesitation, without stopping, rewriting, discarding … the way one breathes, the way one dreams.”

Art from Guido Crepax’s graphic novel adaptation of The Story of O.

betterbooktitles:

Reader Submission: Title by Casey Fox.
William Shakespeare: Titus Andronicus 

My god, I love these posts.

betterbooktitles:

Reader Submission: Title by Casey Fox.

William Shakespeare: Titus Andronicus

My god, I love these posts.

-
Friday, 17th June
ghoulnextdoor:

via Too Much Horror Fiction: Friday I’m in Love: The Ladies of Paperback Gothics
Will has got a post up today with a good number of gorgeous tattered paperback gothics!

ghoulnextdoor:

via Too Much Horror Fiction: Friday I’m in Love: The Ladies of Paperback Gothics

Will has got a post up today with a good number of gorgeous tattered paperback gothics!

-
Friday, 17th June
Her voice is filled with distant sonorities, like reverberations in a cave: now you are at the place of annihilation, now you are at the place of annihilation. And she is herself a cave full of echoes, she is a system of repetitions, she is a closed circuit.’ Can a bird sing only the song it knows or can it learn a new song?’ She draws her long, sharp fingernail across the bars of the cage in which her pet lark sings, striking a plangent twang like that of the plucked heartstrings of a woman of metal. Her hair falls down like tears.

The Lady of the House of Love, Angela Carter

(via entings, likewinethroughwater)

(via foxesinbreeches)

Finally, the camera found the third man. He was the most beautiful man in the world. He stood there in a black leotard and black rubber pants, black rubber boots. Around his neck hung a thoroughly fucked guitar. His skin cleared to his bones, his scull was a utter disaster, scabbed and hacked, and his eyes bulged out of their orbits like a blind man’s. And yet, the eyes stared at us as if to herald some divine visitation. Here stood a man on the trashold of greatness; here stood a Napoleon victorious amongst his spoils, a conquering Caesar parading his troops, a Christ akimbo an Calvary. Blixa Bargeld.
For sixty seconds, this man stood as if paralyzed, hexed by his own madness. Then he opened his mouth and let out a scream that sounded like someone was pulling a thistle out of his soul.
Nick Cave, “Thistles in the soul”, King Ink (excerpt)

(Source: serenepristine, via warmandnaive)

-
Friday, 1st July
numbereight:

from my library.

That is exactly what that book should look like.  

numbereight:

from my library.

That is exactly what that book should look like.  

This is how it is with insomnia. Everything is so far away, a copy of a copy of a copy. The insomnia distance of everything, you can’t touch anything and nothing can touch you.
Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club
-
Thursday, 28th July
Shakespeare was not a propagandist; he did not write plays as vehicles for his own ideas. Rather, he developed a theater of dialectical conflict, in which idea is pitted against idea and from their further friction a deeper understanding of the issues emerges. The resolution which is reached is not the negation of the conflict, but the stasis produced by art. Even as we applaud it, we recognize its fragility.
Germaine Greer, Shakespeare
-
Friday, 29th July
Guided meditation all of a sudden won’t take me anywhere, tonight. Behind each of the seven palace doors, the green door, the orange door, Marla. The blue door, Marla stands there. Liar. In the guided meditation through the cave of my power animal, my power animal is Marla. Smoking her cigarette, Marla, rolling her eyes. Liar. Black hair and pillowy French lips.
Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club
-
Friday, 29th July
So disasters come not singly;
But as if they watched and waited,
Scanning one another’s motions,
When the first descends, the others
Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise
Round their victim, sick and wounded,
First a shadow, then a sorrow,
Till the air is dark with anguish.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Song of Hiawatha”