“I feel like the word shatter.” — 

Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale

(via frenchtwist)




“No one can see me from where I look” — 

Francesca Woodman

(via , grigiabot)




“because I prayed
this word:
I want”
— 

Fragments of Sappho, trs. by Anne Carson 

(via , whiteandmale)




“I ask him to do it again and again. Do it to me. And he did, did it in the unctuousness of blood. And it really was unto death. It has been unto death.” — Marguerite Duras, The Lover


“…but it had happened that she had laughed, showing her little madended she-wolf teeth.” — 

Rachilde, The Marquise de Sade.

(via batarde)




“(Amorous passion is a delirium; but such delirium is not alien; everyone speaks of it, it is henceforth tamed. What is enigmatic is the loss of delirium: One returns to…what?)” — Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments (trans. Richard Howard)


“I want a dress the colour of suffering.” — 

Rachilde, The Marquise de Sade.

(via batarde)




errance / errantry
Though each love is experienced as unique and though the subject rejects the notion of repeating it elsewhere later on, he sometimes discovers in himself a kind of diffusion of amorous desire; he then realizes he is doomed to wander until he dies, from love to love.”
—  Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments (trans. Richard Howard)


“I do not separate my thought from my life. With each of my tongue’s vibrations I retrace all the paths of my thought in my flesh.” — 

Antonin Artaud, Situation of the Flesh, translation by Helen Weaver

(via frenchtwist)




“Even naked I hold
a suitcase of secrets.”
— 

Lisa Allen Ortiz, from “The Ventriloquist’s Heart

(via proustitute)




frenchtwist:

Hair (La chevelure), Amsterdam by Erwin Blumenfeld, c. 1935 ‘Hair hides: it is both promise and seduction. The promise that a woman still has other faces, and among these the face of seduction, the face with which she is no longer a bookseller, a businesswoman, a lawyer or anything else, but simply a woman.’ (Vogue, July 1939)Also
frenchtwist:
Hair (La chevelure), Amsterdam by Erwin Blumenfeld, c. 1935

‘Hair hides: it is both promise and seduction. The promise that a woman still has other faces, and among these the face of seduction, the face with which she is no longer a bookseller, a businesswoman, a lawyer or anything else, but simply a woman.’ (Vogue, July 1939)

Also



“I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.” — 

Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Book of Hours

(via fernsandmoss)




“The true anguish of the flesh — that in imagination we die, and die, and die again.” — 

Gilbert Sorrentino, Imaginative Qualities of Actual Things

(via mythologyofblue)




“Novels institutionalize the ruse of eros. It becomes a narrative texture of sustained incongruence, emotional and cognitive. It permits the reader to stand in triangular relation to the characters in the story and reach into the text after the objects of their desire, sharing their longing but also detached from it, seeing their view of reality but also its mistakenness. It is almost like being in love.” — Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet


“For us, eating and being eaten belong to the terrible secret of love. We love only the person we can eat. The person we hate we ‘can’t swallow.’ That one makes us vomit. Even our friends are inedible. If we were asked to dig into our friend’s flesh we would be disgusted. The person we love we dream only of eating. That is, we slide down that razor’s edge of ambivalence. The story of torment itself is a very beautiful one. Because loving is wanting and being able to eat up and yet to stop at the boundary. And there, at the tiniest beat between springing and stopping, in rushes fear. The spring is already in mid-air. The heart stops. The heart takes off again. Everything in love is oriented towards this absorption. At the same time real love is a don’t-touch, yet still an almost-touching. Tact itself: a phantom touching. Eat me up, my love, or else I’m going to eat you up. Fear of eating, fear of the edible, fear on the part of the one of them who feels loved, desired, who wants to be loved, desired, who desires to be desired, who knows there is no greater proof of love than the other’s appetite, who is dying to be eaten up, who says or doesn’t say, but who signifies: I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow. And yet manage it so as to keep me alive. But I often turn about or compromise, because I know that you won’t eat me up, in the end, and I urge you: bite me. Sign my death with your teeth.” — 

Hélène Cixous, The Love of the Wolf

(via batardemilkyfangs)