"It is in sickness that we are compelled to recognise that we do not live alone but are chained to a being from a different realm, from whom we are worlds apart, who has no knowledge of us and by whom it is impossible to make ourselves understood: our body."
— Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time: The Guermantes Way. (via batarde)
As a child, when I saw the commercial for the Barbie made of rubber that you could bend into any shape you wanted, the girls in it looked like they were having the time of their lives with this doll so I thought that if I got it, I’d be happy.
I did. It was so disappointing because it was hard to bend into shape and then it wouldn’t stay how it was molded.
She turned into my paraplegic Barbie.
None of my other Barbies liked her.
They were judgmental.
Sarah, you are funny and perfect.
And a little violent.
"I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones. Basically it is nothing other than this fear we have so often talked about, but fear spread to everything, fear of the greatest as of the smallest, fear, paralyzing fear of pronouncing a word, although this fear may not only be fear but also a longing for something greater than all that is fearful."
— Franz Kafka (via man-of-prose)
"I did not fall heavily, nor did I feel any pain, but I felt so weak and unhappy that I buried my face in the ground: I could not bear the strain of seeing around me the things of the earth. I felt convinced that every movement and every thought was forced, and that one had to be one’s guard against them. Yet nothing seemed more natural than to lie here on the grass, my arms beside my body, my face hidden."
— Franz Kafka, from Description of a Struggle (via hollowstimulation)
(Source: requiemforthepast, via darkness-in-tales-deactivated20)
"It is wonderful what stagnation there fell upon the springs of my life, then, wonderful how total an inversion took place in the character of my commonest thought. The realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn, not merely the material of my everyday existence, but my existence itself."
— Edgar Allen Poe, Berenice