When you write, you should put your skin on the table. ― Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Journey to the End of the Night. (New Directions; Reprint edition, May 17, 2006) Originally published 1932.
My heart is a cathedral. Widows, ghosts and lovers sit and sing in the dark, arched marrow of me. ― Segovia Amil, Ophelia Wears Black. (CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform; 1 edition, December 11, 2015)
Don’t be a cunt. — Buddha (c. 563 BCE/480 BCE – c. 483 BCE/400 BCE)
Junky’s Christmas IT WAS Christmas Day and Danny the Car Wiper hit the street junksick and broke after seventy-two hours in the precinct jail. It was a clear bright day, but there was warmth in the sun. Danny shivered with an inner cold. He turned up the collar of his worn, greasy black overcoat. This… Continue reading William S. Burroughs
Then you sit in silence long enough, you learn that silence has a motion. It glides over you without shape or form, exactly like water. Its color is silver. And silence has a sound you hear only after hours of wading inside it. The sound is soft, like flute notes rising up, like the words… Continue reading Anne Spollen
Make me into anything, but just love me. — Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters. (W. W. Norton & Company; First Edition ~1st Printing edition June 11, 2012) Originally published September 17th 1999.
If I can’t be beautiful, I want to be invisible. – Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters Remix. (W. W. Norton & Company; First Edition ~1st Printing edition June 11, 2012) Originally published September 17th 1999.
I don’t like remembering. Remembering makes me feel things. I don’t like to feel things. As I’m staring down at the piece of paper, I’m thinking I could spend the rest of my life becoming an expert at forgetting. —Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Last Night I Sang… Continue reading Benjamin Alire Sáenz
One can experience loneliness in two ways: by feeling lonely in the world or by feeling the loneliness of the world. — Emil M. Cioran, On the Heights of Despair. (University Of Chicago Press; 1 edition October 1, 1996) Originally published 1933
[P]hilosophy is the art of masking inner torments. — Emil M. Cioran, On the Heights of Despair. (University Of Chicago Press; 1 edition October 1, 1996) Originally published 1933.