(Source: goldenwolf, via andotherimportantthings)
She took off her clothes like a kite takes gently to a warm April wind. He fumbled his clothes off like a football game being played in November mud.
Sombrero Fallout, Richard Brautigan
2 days ago - 
2
2
Elegance, science, violence! They promised to bury in darkness the tree of good and evil, to deport tyrannic respectability so that we might bring hither our very pure love. It began with a certain disgust - and it ends … in a riot of perfumes.
‘Morning of Drunkenness’, Illuminations, Arthur Rimbaud
5 days ago - 14
14
Why Empire of the Sun is the most depressing book ever
Literally every chapter has something so unspeakably dreadful that is made far, far worse by the dual facts that 1. This is a young boy and 2. This is J. G. Ballard as a young boy.
Chapter 1. Lowering the window, Yang lashed with his leather riding crop at the thoughtless pedestrians…
Chapter 2. Jim told himself that he (a homeless man) never moved because he was warm under the snow.
Chapter 3. In the trenches between the burial mounds hundreds of dead soldiers sat side by side with their heads against the torn earth, as if they had fallen asleep together in a dream of war.
Chapter 4. Jim disliked this regatta of corpses.
And it just keeps going on and on like this, the boy so alienated from love and life that war and death have become his whole world. Where I had to stop today, purely because it was torture to keep reading, was the end of chapter 29. A dying woman hands Jim some food and he almost drifts off to sleep, knowing that to do so will mean being left behind.
Chapter 29. Death, with her mother-of-pearl skin, had almost seduced him with a sweet potato.
I never want anything to die ever again.
1 week ago - 1
1 
Found at St James station: this kid, totally killing it.
A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.
Gravity’s Rainbow, Thomas Pynchon
3 weeks ago - 2
2
Once again Jim was struck by the contrast between the impersonal bodies of the newly dead, whom he saw every day in Shanghai, and these sun warmed skeletons, every one an individual. The skulls intrigued him, with their squinting eye-sockets and quirky teeth. In many ways these skeletons were more alive than the peasant farmers who had briefly tenanted their bones.
Empire of the Sun, J. G. Ballard
1 month ago - 1
1
St James station at night.
(Source: eternalgiver, via raven-shire)
how the purple flame flows downwards
We are half mad with love for death.
Otherwise, how could we ignore sunrise
a sea of night absorbed, sky-born colours falling. But
our sunrises are drunken, or sleepless
& we won’t bother with them tomorrow.
Here: I am making a phrase
it occupies one vast, blooming shadow.
Our realm is drowned, the foaming
stars crash above.
Again: the book is concluding
words blurred, animated, desperate for the end.
The kitten claws at the flyscreen
for a magpie is combing the grass.
All your days you’ve noticed, but never said
how sweet it is
to be without dreaming.
