Virginia Woolf’s suicide note, written to her husband Leonard.
On 28 March 1941 Virginia Woolf put on her coat, filled the pockets with rocks and walked into the River Ouse near her home and drowned herself. Her body wasn’t found until 18 April 1941. Her husband burried her cremated remains in their garden.
There are things sadder
than you and I. Some people
do not even touch. — Sonia Sanchez (via moord)
(Source: seabois, via largerloves)
The fetishization of self-destructive behavior is only romantic if you have a choice. — Philip-Lorca diCorcia (via reversecowgirl) (via leprintemps)
(Source: wasfuereinewunderbarewelt, via largerloves)
A thinking woman sleeps with monsters. — Adrienne Rich, “Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law” (via mirroir)
(Source: limerinthian, via theherocomplex)
To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power. — Maya Angelou (via commovente)
Whatever you set your mind to, your personal total obsession, this is what kills you. Poetry kills you if you’re a poet, and so on. People choose their death whether they know it or not. — Don DeLillo (via earlyfrost)
(Source: cadmiumredfox, via earlyfrost)
When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe — John Muir (via thekhooll)
Red Eyed Leucistic Reticulated Python Hatchling
/ (by Andrew. B)
Auguste Rodin - Il bacio (by LapisLapin)
I need to work on my writing skills and I really love doing this. Please please reblog! I will do every single one of these (It may take me an extremely long time) but I’ll do them.
Sounds like fun!