Irony of Thought

"Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share."

Reblogged from transientrandom

Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves  

" “Nothing has changed the nature of man so much as the loss of silence. The invention of printing, technics, compulsory education - nothing has so altered man as this lack of relationship to silence, this fact that silence is no longer taken for granted.” "

Reblogged from aristela

Max Picard, Swiss writer, important as one of the few thinkers writing from a deeply Platonic sensibility in the 20th century, The world of silence, H. Regnery, 1952, p. 221. (via amiquote)

"Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you’ll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life"

Pablo Neruda

"

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:

where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep

"

Sonnet XVII - Pablo Neruda