It’s A Very Tragic Thing, Not Being Able To Write Beautiful Things.

i don't understand much but what i do know is that people who read books and poetries are so attractive and they have the best vibe

okay but if we, as a society, normalised writing poetry on the walls, wandering through old forests, having massive secret home libraries filled with books we've collected over the years, wearing medieval dresses and lying on the cool grass in a countryside on summer evenings.. daydreaming instead of worrying about chores and silly responsibilities; the world would've been a better place.

Does anyone else while you're reading get through a really good/dramatic scene, and then you put your book down and like, act out the scene that just happened in your mirror and then sometimes you add on to it and create like this whole other plot then when you're done you pick your book back up and continue reading like nothing happened...? Just me? Okay.

De: Fernando Sabino

Para: Clarice Lispector

Nova York, 10 de junho de 1946

Clarice,

Esta é a quarta carta que inicio para responder a sua. Ainda ontem me lembrei muito de você, porque um america­no me perguntou se o meu relógio era suíço. A Suíça existe mesmo? Daqui de Nova York não posso te contar nada além do que você calcula. Tenho sentido muita fal­ta de seu livro que deixei no Brasil, para plagiar uns pedaços quando vou escrever o meu. Tenho tido muitas dores de cabeça. Tenho tido muitos pesadelos. Tenho tido muito pouco dinheiro. Tenho tido muitas oportunidades de ficar calado. Tenho tido muita decepção com os Correios. Tenho tido can­saço, saudade e calma. Tenho bebido muito, muito, muito. Tenho lido os suplementos dominicais. Tenho tido vontade de voltar. Tenho xingado muito o Getúlio. Tenho tido muito medo de morrer. Tenho tido muita pena de Helena ter se casado comigo. Tenho tido muita vontade de voltar a brincar. Clarice, estou perdido no meio de tantos particípios passados. Estou com vontade de fumar e o meu cigarro acabou, estou com vonta­de de namorar de tarde numa pracinha cheia de árvores. Só de pensar que você estará lendo esta carta muitos dias depois de ter sido escrita me dá vontade de não mandar, mas mando. Me escreva, que responderei imediatamente. Como vai indo o seu livro? O que é que você faz às três horas da tarde? Quero saber tudo, tudo. Me escreva uma carta de sete páginas, Clarice.

Fernando.

i love tumblr bc nothing matters here but pictures and inner thoughts

tis the damn season is so me. like. miss dorothea said "yes i have an on and off situationship with my ex whenever i go back to my hometown and we sleep in half the day and they call me babe for the weekend but when it's time for me to leave i will flee their bed without ever discussing what the fuck just happened because emotional intimacy is fucking hard and yes i would rather slip on a mask of indifference and false happiness than communicate to them that i fucking love them and i want them and i need them. i just can't. fucking. say that. so i'll go back to L.A. and the so-called friends who'll write books about me if i ever make it and wonder about the only soul that can tell which smiles i'm faking. and the heart I KNOW I'M BREAKING IS MY OWN !! TO LEAVE THE WARMEST BED I'VE EVER KNOWN !!" and she's so fucking real for that.

the craziest thing about books is you can pick one up and remember exactly where you read and what you felt like when you read it. maybe it was a summer afternoon and you were sad, maybe it was a school night and you were up much too late and already feeling the next morning’s regret, maybe you read the book right after a fight with your mom and you were angry. and a book brings all those emotions and memories back, even if you don’t remember the story the book actually holds. don’t tell me literature isn’t magic 🪄

It hurts when you know what it feels like to love, but don't know what it feels like to be loved.

" the love of your life isn't, always, the one you marry "

Do I really need to have a job for a living??? Is it not enough to live for saying hi to the moon, for scheming through libraries for hours just to feel warm, for sighing happily at that first sip of coffee on a misty afternoon, for smiling at every dog you pass by, for looking at the stars and feeling infinite, for peeling oranges for your lover, for walking through strawberry fields before dawn, for watching pride and prejudice for the 150th time and still being amazed, for writing a shitty poetry the first time you fell in love????