Growing up, I didn’t read novels by women. It’s not that I didn’t want to. It’s almost like I didn’t think that I needed to or, I guess, I didn’t know that I needed to. I was perfectly happy in a world contained by men. I adopted the posture of the brooding male as my own. I was Salinger, I was Kerouac, I was any male protagonist in a novel that one of my boyfriends recommended. I didn’t know that there was a specific female sadness so I was content with relating to a generalized one. And in a way, reading these novels was less of a way to relate and more of a way to learn how to be the type of girl that these male novelists liked. One of my first ambitions wasn’t to be a writer – it was to be a writer’s muse.

Gabby Bess, in Dazed (via electric-cereal)

(via dolorimeter)

odojevski:

“My drawing was not a picture of a hat. It was a picture of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant.”
When I was a child ‘Le Petit Prince’ was my favorite book. Once I made my mom go to the library with me, so I could read it again. While we were driving home I was reading the biography included in the book and I found out that Antoine De Saint-Exupéry died in WWII. I cried the entire ride home. I thought it so unfair that such a beautiful person died in such an awful way, but I guess a lot of good people die at the hands of bad people. At least Antoine De Saint-Exupéry lives on throught the little prince. 

odojevski:

My drawing was not a picture of a hat. It was a picture of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant.”

When I was a child ‘Le Petit Prince’ was my favorite book. Once I made my mom go to the library with me, so I could read it again. While we were driving home I was reading the biography included in the book and I found out that Antoine De Saint-Exupéry died in WWII. I cried the entire ride home. I thought it so unfair that such a beautiful person died in such an awful way, but I guess a lot of good people die at the hands of bad people. At least Antoine De Saint-Exupéry lives on throught the little prince. 

(via neurowall)

I would have liked to find something intelligent to say to you, in order to make clear what separates us, but no use. I am a mind still unshaped, like an imbecile. Think whatever you like of me.

Antonin Artaud, in a letter to Jacques Riviere, March 22, 1924 (via c-ovet)

(via dolorimeter)