Some people bring out the worst in you, others bring out the best, and then there are those remarkably rare, addictive ones who just bring out the most. Of everything. They make you feel so alive that you’d follow them straight into hell, just to keep getting your fix.
— Karen Marie Moning (via exhaledemons)
(Source: vastpastiche, via zoeclaudia)
You’ll need coffee shops and sunsets and road trips. Airplanes and passports and new songs and old songs, but people more than anything else. You will need other people and you will need to be that other person to someone else, a living breathing screaming invitation to believe better things.
— Jamie Tworkowski (via thatkindofwoman)
(Source: cosmiccalculation, via zoeclaudia)
No permanence is ours, we are a wave that flows to fit whatever form it finds.
— Hermann Hesse, from The Glass Bead Game (Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1943)
(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via crashinglybeautiful)
African Literature is an empty designation, as is Asian Literature, European Literature, Latin American Literature, South American Literature, North American Literature, and so forth. My very basic assertion is that the practice of categorizing literature by the continent from which its creators come is past its prime at best. Our dogged insistence upon doing so, in the case of the African continent foremost, betrays a disregard both for the complexities of African cultures and the creativity of African authors.
— Taiye Selasi /v. Source (via neomaditla)
November 26, 2013 at 8:31am
The heart remembers everything it loved and gave away, everything it lost and found again, and everyone it loved, the heart cannot forget.
— Joyce Sutphen /v. the beauty we love