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a girl with a face like an eager flame who was dressed with a maddening perversity of wrongness, but who one day would undoubtedly hold the world in her hands for good or evil

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“
…the fierce tendency of love to express a desire to know and be known, to have amoral curiosity and incuriosity, to be excited but not too much, to be transported but not too far, and to feel held in the world without having any obligation to hold the world back. Love is not entirely ethical, if it has any relation to desire, which it must, if it is to be recognizable as love. If in capitalism “greed is good,” so too in love the inconvenient appetites must be given their genres.
”
Lauren Berlant “A Properly Political Concept of Love”, Cultural Anthropology 26:4 (via fredrikaaa)    

Source:fredrikaaa
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“
My Own Boy,
Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red-roseleaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do go there to cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place and lacks only you; but go to Salisbury first.
Always, with undying love,
Yours, Oscar
”
A letter from Oscar Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas. (via the-library-and-step-on-it)    

reblogged 5 months ago with 148 notes via && source
#oscar wilde #bosie #beauty #quotes #love
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“
One’s love for Virginia is a very different thing: a mental thing, a spiritual thing if you like, an intellectual thing, and she inspires a feeling of tenderness which I suppose is because of her funny mixture of hardness and softness—the hardness of her mind, and the terror of going mad again. She makes me feel protective. Also she loves me, which flatters and pleases me. Also…I am scared to death of arousing physical feelings in her, because of her being absolutely untouchable in my eyes. So all that remains is an unknown quantity. I somehow resent to leave her and each time I do, I question each bit of truthfulness towards my emotions. But darling, Virginia is not the sort of person one thinks of in that way; there is something incongruous and almost indecent in the idea…I have gone to bed with her (twice) but that’s all; and I told you that before, I think. Now you know all about it; and I hope I haven’t shocked you.
”
Vita Sackville-West, from a letter to her husband Harold Nicholson dated 25 April 1926. (via thegoddessofthorns)    

Source:violentwavesofemotion
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“
The fools! They haven’t understood a thing about love, have they?” was the conclusion recently of a 23-year-old waiter at Panis, a cafe on the Left Bank with a view over Notre-Dame. At the heart of love à la française lies the idea of freedom. To love truly is to want the other free, and this includes the freedom to walk away. Love is not about possession or property. Love is no prison where two people are each other’s slaves. Love is not a commodity, either. Love is not capitalist, it is revolutionary. If anything, true love shows you the way to selflessness.
”

agnes c. poirier in the new york times on the strange custom of couples placing padlocks on paris’ bridges and throwing away the key.

In his recent book, “In Praise of Love,” the French philosopher Alain Badiou reminds us that love implies constant risk. There is no safe, everlasting love. The idea that you can lock two people’s love once and for all, and toss the key, is a puerile fantasy. For Mr. Badiou, love is inherently hazardous, always on the brink of failure and above all vulnerable. Embrace its fragility, wish your beloved to be free and you might just, only just, have a chance to retain his or her undying gratitude, and love. But don’t ever dream of locks and throwing keys overboard, especially not in Paris.

   

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in-the-white:

bambulate:

this is a letter my great-grandma sent to my great-grandpa during the WWO2.
they wrote eachother a letter everyday, while my great-grandpa was serving at Moerdijk for 2 years.

this is so cute <3


Source:bambulate
reblogged 10 months ago with 747 notes via && source
#letters #correspondence #wwII #adorable #love
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“
I felt an urgency like love.
”
Karen Thompson Walker, The Age of Miracles (via theoryoflostthings)    

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“
I don’t suppose I really know you very well - but I know you smell like the delicious damp grass that grows near old walls and that your hands are beautiful opening out of your sleeves and that the back of your head is a mossy sheltered cave when there is trouble in the wind and that my cheek just fits the depression in your shoulder.
”
Zelda Fitzgerald, in a letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald (via caughtinabookromance)    

Source:espressopatronum
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“
I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain.
”

Oscar Wilde (via saddest-summer)

oh, Oscar, that you spent this kind of love on Bosie makes me sad. 

(via champagnecandy)

   

Source:saddest-summer
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perpetualpresent:

“For us, eating and being eaten belong to the terrible secret of love. We love only the person we can eat. The person we hate we ‘can’t swallow.’ That one makes us vomit. Even our friends are inedible. If we were asked to dig into our friend’s flesh we would be disgusted. The person we love we dream only of eating. That is, we slide down that razor’s edge of ambivalence. The story of torment itself is a very beautiful one. Because loving is wanting and being able to eat up and yet to stop at the boundary. And there, at the tiniest beat between springing and stopping, in rushes fear. The spring is already in mid-air. The heart stops. The heart takes off again. Everything in love is oriented towards this absorption. At the same time real love is a don’t-touch, yet still an almost-touching. Tact itself: a phantom touching. Eat me up, my love, or else I’m going to eat you up. Fear of eating, fear of the edible, fear on the part of the one of them who feels loved, desired, who wants to be loved, desired, who desires to be desired, who knows there is no greater proof of love than the other’s appetite, who is dying to be eaten up, who says or doesn’t say, but who signifies: I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow. And yet manage it so as to keep me alive. But I often turn about or compromise, because I know that you won’t eat me up, in the end, and I urge you: bite me. Sign my death with your teeth.”

—

The Love of the Wolf // Hélène Cixious


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