smakkabagms
smakkabagms
nihil ex nihilo
(Hag), 27. The monstrous female, lover of wet and dark and liminal things.. Familiar to Otherworlds, places of mirrors and nightwater - dreamer of the serpent-coloured stars. I go- with the wolf and the crone, where the sea no longer hurts and I am the sole inhabitor of my voice and soul and body again.
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smakkabagms · 2 hours ago
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Mahmoud Darwish, A Café, and You with the Newspaper in Almond Blossoms and Beyond (tr. Mohammad Shaheen)
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smakkabagms · 2 hours ago
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“Midnight stares from his eyes.”
— Adonis, from The Martyr in Dreams (tr. by Samuel Hazo)
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smakkabagms · 15 hours ago
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“Let’s disappear, shall we?”
— Vita Sackville-West, in a letter to Virginia Woolf, December 1926 
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smakkabagms · 23 hours ago
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Simone Weil, “Detachment” (trans. Emma Craufurd), Simone Weil: An Anthology
[Text ID: “Love is not consolation, it is light.”]
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smakkabagms · a day ago
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Winter lives under a pigeon’s wing, a dead wing with damp feathers.
Elizabeth Bishop, excerpt from “Two Mornings and Two Evenings: Paris, 7 A.M.” (via virgin-martyr)
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smakkabagms · a day ago
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My manuscripts are lost our language forgotten who'll know the letters people fall from the burning loft where my manuscripts were stored my poems are gone
Alice Notley, Songs and Stories of the Ghouls
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smakkabagms · a day ago
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And life's cold as a fish - Is that how you live? - Yes, how else? So many are the drowned down on the sea's bed.
George Seferis, “Fog”
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smakkabagms · a day ago
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I hear, as in a sea shell, the distant adverse and confused lament of the world but these are moments only, they disappear, and the two-branched thought of my desire reigns alone.
George Seferis
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smakkabagms · a day ago
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black-eyed bog water my life a thread unravels, dusk falls, the earth below me writhes like a worm worn-out with night-voiced instruments hands, throat lonely waters where I call into the past but nothing ever comes
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smakkabagms · a day ago
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Sadko, 1899, Mikhail Vrubel
Medium: watercolor
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smakkabagms · a day ago
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Susan Sontag, from As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980
Text ID: —to fill myself up. I always feel like I’m eating when I’m reading. And the need to read (etc. etc.) is like an awful raging hunger. So that I often try to read two or three books at a time.
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smakkabagms · 2 days ago
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‘... I myself seemed to exist only as an inner core of palpitating fire.’
Dorothy Strachey, Olivia (1949)
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smakkabagms · 2 days ago
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Illus. by Artuš Scheiner for Vyšehrad by Julius Zeyer
via
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smakkabagms · 2 days ago
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Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House
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smakkabagms · 3 days ago
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Théodore Rousseau, The Forest in Winter at Sunset
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smakkabagms · 3 days ago
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Desires as round as peaches bloom in me all night, I no longer gather what falls.
Anne Carson, from "Short Talk on Hedonism", Short Talks
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smakkabagms · 3 days ago
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et nimium meminisse necesse est.
Vergilius
And it’s far too much, the things we’re forced to remember.
(via labentiasidera)
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smakkabagms · 3 days ago
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Mary Ruefle, from Trances of the Blast; “Jumping Ahead”
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smakkabagms · 3 days ago
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hour where night has crept from its cave cold as the makings of bones the world is as dark as the stars hung limp over the rot of old gods and empires below them, my body’s confused and restless animal, do you recognize me? blush, blue mawed nothings I have heaved my own spirit behind me, her weight was too changed, too inconsolable and I was too tired of abstractions, tracing out the dark that continues to shrink and lift the earth below its thumb pressed down as rough and tameless as ruin so I wait, my tongue is swallowed by the moon I do not know how to forgive myself of anything
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smakkabagms · 3 days ago
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I forget endlessly, I forget more than I could remember. My translucent, airy heart is pierced by the sheer sufficiency of things, and it is enough for me to gaze on them fondly. I was never anything more than an incorporeal vision, with no soul apart from a vague breeze that came and then was gone.
Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
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