Automat, Edward Hopper

It is when the feet weary and hope seems vain that the heartaches and the longings arise. Know, then, that for you is neither their surfeit nor content. In your rocking chair, by your window dreaming, shall you long, alone. In your rocking chair, by your window, shall you dream such happiness as you may never feel. -Sister Carrie, Theodore Dreiser

Automat, Edward Hopper

It is when the feet weary and hope seems vain that the heartaches and the longings arise. Know, then, that for you is neither their surfeit nor content. In your rocking chair, by your window dreaming, shall you long, alone. In your rocking chair, by your window, shall you dream such happiness as you may never feel. -Sister Carrie, Theodore Dreiser

"All great and precious things are lonely."
East of Eden, John Steinbeck

Marilyn Monroe in ‘Fragments’

distantheartbeats:

Only parts of us will ever
touch only parts of others— 
one’s own truth is just
that really—one’s own truth.
We can only share the
part that is understood by within another’s knowing acceptable to
the other  therefore so one
is for the part alone
As it is meant to be in
evidently in nature—at best though perhaps it could make
our understanding seek
another’s loneliness out. 

It’s messy and a bit amateur, but I love it anyways.


"Virginia Woolf is one of the women writers who have interested me most.  Have you seen any photos of her? An extraordinarily lonely face …"
-Simone de Beauvoir, in her interview with The Paris Review

"Virginia Woolf is one of the women writers who have interested me most. Have you seen any photos of her? An extraordinarily lonely face …"

-Simone de Beauvoir, in her interview with The Paris Review

"It’s because everything must end that everything is so beautiful."
Carine Rotifeld (via human-voices)

Marginalia- Billy Collins

Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O’Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.

Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -
"Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" -
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
why wrote “Don’t be a ninny”
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.

Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls “Metaphor” next to a stanza of Eliot’s.
Another notes the presence of “Irony”
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.

Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths.
"Absolutely," they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
"Yes." "Bull’s-eye." "My man!"
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.

And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written “Man vs. Nature”
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.

We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.

Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird signing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page-
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.

And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake’s furious scribbling.

Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents’ living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page


A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
"Pardon the egg salad stains, but I’m in love."

"We live as we dream—alone…."
Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad
"I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others—young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life."
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (via human-voices)
"Everyone, at some point in their lives, wakes up in the middle of the night with the feeling that they are all alone in the world, and that nobody loves them now and that nobody will ever love them, and that they will never have a decent night’s sleep again and will spend their lives wandering blearily around a loveless landscape, hoping desperately that their circumstances will improve, but suspecting, in their heart of hearts, that they will remain unloved forever. The best thing to do in these circumstances is to wake somebody else up, so that they can feel this way, too."
Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can’t Avoid, Lemony Snicket (via sweetgirlgone)