"Anxiety is the organ by which the subject appropriates sorrow and assimilates it. Anxiety is the energy of the movement by which sorrow bores its way into one’s heart."
Text: Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or … Image: John Cassavetes, A Woman Under the Influence
How I would like to have them back, those pointless afternoons - the boredom, the aimlessness, the unformed possibilities. And I do have them back, in a way; except now there won’t be much of whatever happens next.
—Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin (via myquotelibrary)
Having seen how lucidly and logically certain madmen
justify their lunatic ideas to themselves and to others,
I can never again be sure of the lucidness of my lucidity
— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via fuckyeahexistentialism)
Wishes don’t do anything but fill pools with pennies and sometimes the hopeless with hope.
—Amanda Oliver (via exploreislands)
How much we each want to have sex, what kinds of people we find attractive, what pleasures bring us to orgasm, how we feel about all of it, and any other variable can shift for a number of reasons. Sooner or later, almost everyone is going to find themselves outside the statistically defined norm, at least in some way. If someone never diverged from that middle portion of any of the distribution curves, they’d be so uncommon that they would, in fact, be abnormal. The only thing that’s normal about sex is that nobody is actually normal.
An empty space is marked off with plain wood and plain walls, so that the light drawn into it forms dim shadows within emptiness. There is nothing more. And yet, when we gaze into the darkness that gathers behind the crossbeam, around the flower vase, beneath the shelves, though we know perfectly well it is mere shadow, we are overcome with the feeling that in this small corner of the atmosphere there reigns complete and utter silence; that here in the darkness immutable tranquility holds sway. The "mysterious Orient" of which Westerners speak probably refers to the uncanny silence of these dark places. And even we as children would feel an inexpressible chill as we peered into the depths of an alcove to which the sunlight had never penetrated. Where lies the key to this mystery? Ultimately it is in the magic of shadows. Were the shadows to be banished from its corners, the alcove would in that instant revert to mere void.
— Jun’ichirõ Tanizaki, In Praise of Shadows (via fuckyeahexistentialism)