(via notmybeautifulhome)
here’s looking at you
How does a love end? – Then it does end? To tell the truth, no one – except for the others – ever knows anything about it; a kind of innocence conceals the end of this thing conceived, asserted, lived according to eternity. Whatever the loved being becomes, whether he vanishes or moves into the realm of Friendship, in any case I never see him disappear: the love which is over and done with passes into another world like a ship into space, lights no longer winking: the loved being once echoed loudly, now that being is entirely without resonance (the other never disappears when and how we expect). This phenomenon results from a constraint in the lover’s discourse: I myself cannot (as an enamored subject) construct my love story to the end: I am its poet (its bard) only for the beginning; the end, like my own death, belongs to others; it is up to them to write the fiction, the external, mythic narrative.
Roland Barthes
(Source: The New York Times, via thatkindofwoman)
(Source: squaremeal, via thatkindofwoman)
(via ryanfuckinggosling)
(Source: eightxfiftytwo, via thingsorganizedneatly)
the taste and smell of a forest under water.
We do not receive wisdom, we must discover it for ourselves, after a journey through the wilderness which no one else can make for us, which no one can spare us, for our wisdom is the point of view from which we come at last to regard the world. The lives that you admire, the attitudes that seem noble to you, have not been shaped by a paterfamilias or a schoolmaster, they have sprung from very different beginnings, having been influenced by evil or commonplace that prevailed round them. They represent a struggle and a victory.
—Marcel Proust (via thatkindofwoman)
(Source: atomos, via thatkindofwoman)
carnal
(Source: squaremeal, via thatkindofwoman)
