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I find myself on a nude beach: dumbfounded by the beauty and wretchedness of human beings, all of us.

—Jan Saudek + (via mythologyofblue)

It passes, but it does not pass away.

—László Krasznahorkai (via mythologyofblue)

I’m lucky enough to occasionally be able to do something I love — write poems — and unlucky enough that what I love confuses and overwhelms me.

—Mary Ruefle, Madness, Rack, and Honey (via mythologyofblue)

Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.

—André Malraux (via mythologyofblue)

For the sake of a line of poetry one must see many cities, people, and things, one must know animals, must feel how the birds fly, and know the gestures with which small flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back to paths in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to partings one long saw coming; to childhood days that are still not understood, to parents one had to hurt when they brought one a joy and one did not understand it (it was a joy to someone else); to childhood illnesses that set in so strangely with so many profound and heavy transformations, to days in quiet, muted rooms and to mornings by the sea, the sea altogether, to nights travelling that rushed up and away and flew with all the stars; and if one can think of all that, it is still not enough.

—Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, trans. by Burton Pike (via mythologyofblue)

Your love makes me at once the happiest and the unhappiest of men

—Ludwig Van Beethoven (via frobbals)

Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.

—Pablo Picasso (via k273)

There are more fools in the world than there are people.

—Heinrich Heine (via thesparhawke)

The intelligentsia leads to an inevitable solitude.

—Tato - Marcel Ferrari Longuini (via curinga)