Posts tagged love

Later — when things happened that they could never have imagined — she wrote him a letter that said: When will you learn that there isn’t a word for everything?
— The History Of Love (via tothepersoninthebelljar)
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She was ready to deny the existence of space and time rather than admit that love might not be eternal.
— Simone de Beauvoir (via human-voices)

(Source: misswallflower)

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I loved them, according to the hallowed expression, which amounts to saying that I never loved any of them.
— Albert Camus (via phredosophy)
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I want a trouble-maker for a lover,
Blood spiller, blood drinker, a heart of flame,
Who quarrels with the sky and fights with fate,
Who burns like fire on the rushing sea.
—

From Rumi’s Kolliyaat-e Shams-e Tabrizi

Edited by Badiozzaman Forouzanfar (Tehran, Amir Kabir, 1988).

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Fear no more the heat o’ the sun; Nor the furious winter’s rages, Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages; Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney sweepers come to dust. Fear no more the frown of the great, Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke: Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor the all-dread thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finished joy and moan; All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have; And renowned be thy grave!  William Shakespeare (via thischarmingman1981)

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun; 
Nor the furious winter’s rages, 
Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages; 
Golden lads and girls all must, 
As chimney sweepers come to dust. 

Fear no more the frown of the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke: 
Care no more to clothe and eat; 
To thee the reed is as the oak: 
The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash, 
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone; 
Fear not slander, censure rash; 
Thou hast finished joy and moan; 
All lovers young, all lovers must 
Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

No exorciser harm thee! 
Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 
Ghost unlaid forbear thee! 
Nothing ill come near thee! 
Quiet consummation have; 
And renowned be thy grave! 

William Shakespeare

(via thischarmingman1981)

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When shall we meet again? When will the earthy taste of your lips come again to brush the anxiety of my mind? Will all our sensations remain forever intellectual, and will not our dreams succeed in igniting one soul whose feeling will help us to die? What is this death in which we are forever alone, in which love does not show us the way?
— Antonin Artaud, Art and Death.
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I make myself flesh in order to impel the Other to realize for herself and for me her own flesh. My caress causes my flesh to be born for me insofar as it is for the Other flesh causing her to be born as flesh.
— Being and Nothingness, J.P. Sartre
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