1. beautifulpakistan:

    image

    Photo by #ShutterGames

     

  2. 0rph3u5:

    …the memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment…
    Marcel Proust In Search of Lost Time

     

  3. zaydalix:

    image

    - Ivan Turgenev

     

  4. aniaks:

    But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?

    Lord Byron, Don Juan

     

  5. juegosintiperojuegocontigo:

    image
    image

    Forgive me father for I have synthed

    (via a-73n)

     

  6. wearepaladin:

    “To die the worst of deaths: to be unable to return the kindnesses that others have bestowed upon you.”

    Marcus Aurelius

     

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  8. myonegin:

    “Within every word [there is] the unhealable wound of language.”

    Edmond Jabès, From the Book to the Book

    (via theroseofgazing)

     

  9. thenoaidi:

    “The ancient world was settled so sparsely that nature was not yet eclipsed by man. Nature hit you in the eye so plainly and grabbed you so fiercely and so tangibly by the scruff of the neck that perhaps it really was still full of gods.”

    Boris Pasternak, “Doctor Zhivago

     

  10. the-hearth-and-the-wild:

    Do silly things. Foolishness is a great deal more vital and healthy than our straining and striving after a meaningful life.

    Anton Chekhov

     

  11. lavandula:

    “It was so gorgeous it almost felt like sadness.”

    — Banana Yoshimoto, The Lake 

    (via calamoon)

     

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  14. jessiethatcher:

    Egon Schiele, Still Life.

    (via hairtusk)

     

  15. aniaks:

    “It is in sickness that we are compelled to recognise that we do not live alone but are chained to a being from a different realm, from whom we are worlds apart, who has no knowledge of us and by whom it is impossible to make ourselves understood: our body.”

    — Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way