She is beside me, drenched in sweat. She’s breathing gently, long slow breaths. I imagine her soul going in and out: wanting to leave, wanting to come back, wanting to leave, wanting to come back. The day will soon harden into what we need to do. But for now we have each other. We run a bath. In the faint phosphorescent light of the storm we submerge ourselves to our necks and our legs intertwine. Nothing could ever be this close. Everything is the best, or else, “I can’t go on living like this. Oh God, it’s all such a mess.” We stroke each other softly and feel entirely dislocated from the earth, which has never existed.
― Luke Davies, Candy: A Novel of Love and Addiction (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
The advice I like to give young artists, or really anybody who’ll listen to me, is not to wait around for inspiration. Inspiration is for amateurs; the rest of us just show up and get to work. If you wait around for the clouds to part and a bolt of lightning to strike you in the brain, you are not going to make an awful lot of work. All the best ideas come out of the process; they come out of the work itself. Things occur to you. If you’re sitting around trying to dream up a great art idea, you can sit there a long time before anything happens. But if you just get to work, something will occur to you and something else will occur to you and something else that you reject will push you in another direction. Inspiration is absolutely unnecessary and somehow deceptive. You feel like you need this great idea before you can get down to work, and I find that’s almost never the case.
― Chuck Close (via observando)
You’re my strength, my ethics, and all I have that’s good. And I love you even more passionately than I thought. I didn’t think I’d find your absence so harrowing, but I do. Not because I need anyone — I don’t feel lonely or abandoned — but because I want you. ― Simone de Beauvoir, from Letters To Sartre (via violentwavesofemotion)
What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can’t be trusted—? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight towards a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?
― Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch (via tat-art)