Henri Cartier-Bresson, Sunday on the Backs of the River Marne, 1938
A cage went in search of a bird.
written by Franz Kafka, The Collected Aphorisms
For everything outside the phenomenal world language can only be used allusively, but never even approximately by way of comparison, since, corresponding as it does to the phenomenal world, it is concerned with property and its relations.
written by Franz Kafka, The Collected Aphorisms
Kafka is a ‘writer of absence’, describing a world that remains religious in its structure but in which the central place belonging to God is empty.
written by S. Zizek (via alterities)

(via whyallcaps)

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Marcel Bovis   
Restaurant à la Mère Catherine -  Paris 1946
Absence is the highest form of presence.
written by James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (via rabbitinthemoon)
Somewhere we know that without silence words lose their meaning, that without listening speaking no longer heals, that without distance closeness cannot cure.
written by Henri J.M. Nouwen (via 13neighbors)
Writing is an underestimated art, you are painting colorful images in people’s minds by using words of black and white.
written by I.C., The Art of Writing (via nudelip)

(Source: delicatepoetry, via bellefleurcaroline)

3 notes

Crimea, Ukraine.
September, 2012.
1 note

Sozopol, Bulgaria.
August, 2012.
1,327 notes

In a Wine Country state of mind.
Seventeen seems like the perfect age. Not naive like sixteen. Not feeling the pressures of daunting adulthood like eighteen. Just plain and simple, seventeen.
written by seven months to seventeen | #5 (via avenue)

(via bellefleurcaroline)

1,826 notes
3,224 notes

* Vladimir Nabokov, teaching his students how to read Kafka, pointed out to them that the insect into which Gregor Samsa is transformed is in fact a winged beetle, an insect that carries its wings under its armoured back, and that if Gregor had only discovered them, he would have been able to escape. And then Nabokov added: “Many a Dick and a Jane grow up like Gregor, unaware that they too have wings and can fly.”
And don’t demand any sincerity from me, Milena. No one can demand it from me more than I myself and yet many things elude me, I’m sure, perhaps everything eludes me.
written by  Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena  (via whyallcaps)

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