She always says she dislikes the abnormal, it is so obvious. She says the normal is so much more simply complicated and interesting.

28 Days Later OST - Taxi (Ave Maria)

(Source: todoroffdesign)


* Vladimir Nabokov, teaching his students how to read Kafka, pointed out to them that the insect into which Gregor Samsa is transformed is in fact a winged beetle, an insect that carries its wings under its armoured back, and that if Gregor had only discovered them, he would have been able to escape. And then Nabokov added: “Many a Dick and a Jane grow up like Gregor, unaware that they too have wings and can fly.”
I’ve got a bad case of the 3:00 am guilts - you know, when you lie in bed awake and replay all those things you didn’t do right? Because, as we all know, nothing solves insomnia like a nice warm glass of regret, depression and self-loathing.
D.D. Barant, Dying Bites (via left-nut)

(Source: uglypnis, via regulusalphaleonis)

those who escape hell
never talk about
and nothing much
bothers them
Charles Bukowski  (via tiredestprincess)

(Source: blackistheonlycolor, via ladygoldenhair)


Serge Gainsbourg - Ballade de Melody Nelson
(Histoire De Melody Nelson, 1971)

Il y a donc un quelque chose qui détruit ma pensée ; un quelque chose qui ne m’empêche pas d’être ce que je pourrais être, mais qui me laisse, si je puis dire, en suspens.
Antonin Artaud, Correspondance avec Jacques Rivière (via belluas)

(via belluas-deactivated20140614)

Le Vent Nous Portera | Sophie Hunger 

(Source: yanfiratyan)


“Once you are awake, you shall remain awake eternally.”

—F. Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra: Part Three, “The Convalescent,” §1 (excerpt).


Koop Island Blues | Koop


by Franz Kafka
I feel you there, in every pore. Your silence clamors in my ears. You can nail up your mouth, cut your tongue out — but you can’t prevent your being there. Can you stop your thoughts? I hear them ticking away like a clock, tick-tock, tick-tock, and I’m certain you hear mine.
Jean-Paul Sartre, from No Exit, in No Exit and Three Other Plays (vintage, 1989)  (via apoetreflects)

(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction, via apoetreflects)

I couldn’t stand the ordinariness of life. I couldn’t stand family life. I couldn’t stand job life. I couldn’t stand anything I looked at. I just decided I either had to starve, make it, go mad, come through or do something. Even if I hadn’t made it on writing… I could not do the eight-to-five. I would have been a suicide, something. Something, I’m sorry. I could not accept the snail’s pace, eight-to-five, Johnny Carson, Happy Birthday, Christmas, New Year…to me this is the sickest of all sick things.
Charles Bukowski, from The Bukowski Tapes (via litafficionado)
Et à la fin de tout, on s’aperçoit que personne n’est capable réellement de penser à personne, fût-ce dans le pire des malheurs. Car penser réellement à quelqu’un, c’est y penser minute après minute, sans être distrait par rien, ni les soins du ménage, ni la mouche qui vole, ni les repas, ni une démangeaison. Mais il y a toujours des mouches et des démangeaisons. C’est pourquoi la vie est difficile à vivre.
Albert Camus, La peste 

Janet Malcolm — Abyss, from the Emily Dickinson Series, 2013 (detail)