Literature is My (Su)rreal Utopia: Simone de Beauvoir

Literature is My (Su)rreal Utopia

Showing posts with label Simone de Beauvoir. Show all posts

Thursday, 11 December 2014

Simone de Beauvoir

Publicado por Marina Hurt en 22:37 No comments:

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Literature

#QuotesThatDefineMyself

I had never lost my interest in books. Reading was my scape and my comfort, my consolation, my stimulant of choice: reading for the pure pleasure of it, for the beautiful stillness that surrounds you when you hear an author´s words reverberating in your head.

BROOKLIN FOLLIES, Paul Auster

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Entradas populares

Teach me I am forgotten by the dead, by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Teach me I am forgotten by the dead And that the dead is by herself forgot And I no longer would keep terms with me. I would not murder,...
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, by William Butler Yeats

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and...
in 1821 Percy Bysshe Shelley's "Adonais," his elegy to John Keats, was published.

"Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats" I I weep for Adonais—he is dead! Oh, weep for Adonais! though our...
The River, by Ralph Waldo Emerson

And I behold once more My old familiar haunts; here the blue river, The same blue wonder that my infant eye Admired, sage doubting whence ...
I wandered lonely as a Cloud, by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a Cloud That floats on high o’er Vales and Hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden Daffodils; Beside ...
Fire and Ice
Four quartets, T. S. Eliot

«...Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind Cannot bear very much reality. Time past and time future What might have been and what has been...
The Sick Rose, by William Blake

O Rose thou art sick. The invisible worm, That flies in the night In the howling storm: Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his ...
Christina Rossetti

“Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart; My silent heart, lie still and break: Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed For...
A Noiseless Patient Spider, by Walt Whitman

A noiseless patient spider, I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated, Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrou...

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