BRECCIA

"I believed that I wanted to be a poet, but deep down I just wanted to be a poem."

Jaime Gil de Bieda (via wisps)

(Source: light-essence, via wisps)

"All I’ve ever done is dream. That, and only that, has been the meaning of my existence. The only thing I’ve ever really cared about is my inner life. My greatest griefs faded to nothing the moment I opened the window onto my inner self and lost myself in watching. I never tried to be anything other than a dreamer. I never paid any attention to people who told me to go out and live. I belonged always to whatever was far from me and to whatever I could never be. Anything that was not mine, however base, always seemed to be full of poetry. The only thing I ever loved was pure nothingness…"

Fernando Pessoa (via fernandopessoa-is-not-for-you)

(Source: amor-omnibus, via violent-buddhist)

"We stepped into a gentle spring, a warm night, the light of its young, violet, and newly risen moon shimmering on the mud. That late-winter night had sped on apace, feverishly anticipating its late phases. The air, seasoned but a moment ago with the usual pungency of that month, had become sweet and sickly, filled with the scent of rainwater, moist loam, and the first of the night’s snowdrops, blossoming out somnambulistically in a magical white light. It is a wonder that, beneath that muneficent moon, that night did not swarm with frogspawn on that silver swamp, proliferate with progeny, become garrulous with thousands of babbling proboscides on those riverside gravel heaps, leaking incessantly from their glistening, freshwater netting. And some inventiveness was needed, a little guesswork, to catch the sound of that croaking in the grumbling and spring-watered night, filled with subcutaneous shudders; suspended for only a moment, only to move on again as the moon reached its zenith, white and whiter as if pouring its whiteness from goblet to goblet, higher and higher, ever more radiant, ever more magical and transcendent."

BRUNO SCHULZ, excerpt from Spring (via azorica)

(via friedvamp)

"Algebra applies to the clouds, the radiance of the star benefits the rose—no thinker would dare to say that the perfume of the hawthorn is useless to the constellations. Who could ever calculate the path of a molecule? How do we know that the creations of worlds are not determined by falling grains of sand? Who can understand the reciprocal ebb and flow of the infinitely great and the infinitely small, the echoing of causes in the abyss of being and the avalanches of creation? A mite has value; the small is great, the great is small. All is balanced in necessity; frightening vision for the mind. There are marvelous relations between beings and things, in this inexhaustible whole, from sun to grub, there is no scorn, each needs the other. Light does not carry terrestrial perfumes into the azure depths without knowing what it does with them; night distributes the stellar essence to the sleeping plants. Every bird that flies has the thread of the infinite in its claw. Germination includes the hatching of a meteor and the tap of a swallow’s beak breaking the egg, and it guides the birth of the earthworm, and the advent of Socrates. Where the telescope ends, the microscope begins. Which of the two has a greater view? Choose. A bit of mold is a pleiad of flowers; a nebula is an anthill of stars. The same promiscuity, and still more wonderful, between the things of the intellect and material things. Elements and principles are mingled, combined, espoused, multiplied one by another, to the point that the material world, and the moral world are brought into the same light. Phenomena are perpetually folded back on themselves. In the vast cosmic changes, universal life comes and goes in unknown quantities, rolling everything up in the invisible mystery of the emanations, using everything, losing no dream from any single sleep, sowing a microscopic animal here, crumbling a star there, oscillating and gyrating, making a force of light, and an element of thought, disseminated and indivisible dissolving all, that geometric point, the self; reducing everything to the soul-atom; making everything blossom into God; entangling from the highest to the lowest, all activities in the obscurity of a dizzying mechanism, linking the flight of an insect to the movement of the earth, subordinating—who knows, if only by the identity of the law—the evolutions of the comet in the firmament to the circling of the protozoa in the drop of water. A machine made of mind. Enormous gearing, whose first motor is the gnat, and whose last is the zodiac."

Les Misérables, Victor Hugo  (via clavicola)