— Holly Black, Black Heart
(Source: vega-ofthe-lyre, via catladysoul)
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What if I were smiling and running into your arms, would you see then what I see now? wild thing(s)
What if I were smiling and running into your arms, would you see then what I see now? wild thing(s)
Girls like her, my grandfather once warned me, girls like her turn into women with eyes like bullet holes and mouths made of knives. They are always restless. They are always hungry. They are bad news. They will drink you down like a shot of whisky. Falling in love with them is like falling down a flight of stairs.
I was such a fool … I couldn’t see what was real until time had washed away everything else.
— Austenland, Shannon Hale
(Source: iheartevanrachelwood)
Capitalism doesn’t inspire creativity, it stifles it. There are millions of geniuses that might be doing something brilliant, but instead are putting stickers on packets of biscuits they can barely afford for 12 hours a day so some lazy prick can play golf every Sunday with all the other impotent do nothing pricks.
— One interesting thing about the Works Progress Administration during the Great Depression, is that they actively employed artists, to be artists. Not to work in factories or farms, but to be artists.
(via girl-violence)
Roll down the windows and open our mouths, taste where we are and play the music loud. Stop the car, lay on the grass, the planets spin and we watch space pass.
(Source: dinulipattisbones)
Ships that pass in the night and speak each other in passing;
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and a silence.
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and a silence.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Tales of a Wayside Inn
(Source: aindamais)
We are the girls with anxiety disorders, filled appointment books, five-year plans. We take ourselves very, very seriously. We are the peacemakers, the do-gooders, the givers, the savers. We are on time, overly prepared, well read, and witty, intellectually curious, always moving…We pride ourselves on getting as little sleep as possible and thrive on self-deprivation. We drink coffee, a lot of it. We are on birth control, Prozac, and multivitamins…We are relentless, judgmental with ourselves, and forgiving to others. We are the daughters of the feminists who said ‘You can be anything’ and we heard ‘You have to be everything.’
— Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters - Courtney E. Martin
(Source: adaptationorretribution, via girl-violence)
I guess some of this mad right-wing love comes from the idea that in America, anyone can become a Rich Guy if he just works hard and saves his pennies. Mitt Romney has said, in effect, “I’m rich and I don’t apologize for it.” Nobody wants you to, Mitt. What some of us want—those who aren’t blinded by a lot of bullshit persiflage thrown up to mask the idea that rich folks want to keep their damn money—is for you to acknowledge that you couldn’t have made it in America without America. That you were fortunate enough to be born in a country where upward mobility is possible (a subject upon which Barack Obama can speak with the authority of experience), but where the channels making such upward mobility possible are being increasingly clogged. That it’s not fair to ask the middle class to assume a disproportionate amount of the tax burden. Not fair? It’s un-fucking-American, is what it is. I don’t want you to apologize for being rich; I want you to acknowledge that in America, we all should have to pay our fair share. That our civics classes never taught us that being American means that—sorry, kiddies—you’re on your own. That those who have received much must be obligated to pay—not to give, not to “cut a check and shut up,” in Gov. Christie’s words, but to pay—in the same proportion. That’s called stepping up and not whining about it. That’s called patriotism, a word the Tea Partiers love to throw around as long as it doesn’t cost their beloved rich folks any money.
— Stephen King, Tax Me, for Fuck’s Sake
(via girl-violence)
I don’t want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise
