(Source: ozneo, via companyoffuck)
(via purveyor-of-fine-whines)
And when a poet dies, deep in the night
a lone black bird wakes up in the thicket
and sings for all it’s worth
Miroslav Holub, from “Interferon” (translated by Dana Habova and David Young)
(Source: awritersruminations)
(Source: nymphjoke, via covetandcontravene)
I think we ought to read only books that bite and sting us. If the book we are reading doesn’t shake us awake like a blow to the skull, why bother reading it in the first place? So it can make us happy? Good God, we’d be just as happy if we had no books at all.. A book must be the ax for the frozen sea within us.
Franz Kafka (via murdertree)
(Source: yuki9, via automatiques)
6 days ago - 
45
45
(via creature-i-dont-know)
