• 1 week ago
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A long time ago I learned not to explain things to people. It misleads them into thinking they’re entitled to know everything I do.

— Lisa Kleypas, Dreaming of You

  • 1 week ago
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  • 1 week ago

My notebook has remained blank for months
thanks to the light you shower
around me. I have no use
for my pen, which lies
languorously without grief.

Nothing is better than to live
a storyless life that needs
no writing for meaning—
when I am gone, let others say
they lost a happy man,
though no one can tell how happy I was.

Missed Time”, Ha Jin

(Source: literarymiscellany)

  • 2 weeks ago
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  • 3 weeks ago
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Depression presents itself as a realism regarding the rottenness of the world in general and the rottenness of your life in particular. But the realism is merely a mask for depression’s actual essence, which is an overwhelming estrangement from humanity. The more persuaded you are of your unique access to the rottenness, the more afraid you become of engaging with the world; and the less you engage with the world, the more perfidiously happy-faced the rest of humanity seems for continuing to engage with it.

— Jonathan Franzen, How to Be Alone

(Source: thechocolatebrigade)

  • 4 weeks ago
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  • 1 month ago
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