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PIEGAS

@se1gfr1ed

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happyheidi

C. 1930s,

Photograph of two women kissing captioned "Um-m! that kiss! Guess I still love you! Jus' can't help it!"

(via)

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netunodemilo
— Matthew Denninson, from “Behind the Mask: The Life of Vita Sackville-West.” (2014)
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netunodemilo
“I want to be haunted. I want autumn, flowers bathed in blood, the sort of intensity that weighs me down against my own will.”

— Julia de Burgos, from Song of the Simple Truth: Poems; “Autumn Psalm,”

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darlingvirginia

Emily Dickinson to Susan Huntington Dickinson, 1852 // Virginia Woolf to Vita Sackville-West, 1927

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daughterf
"You know, I have never trusted anyone as I trust you. In everything enchanted there's an element of trust."
"I could not write about this to anyone I did not love as I love you. It is all too private and secret."

Vladimir Nabokov's letter to Vera, 2 January 1924 (Prague) // Vita's letter to Virginia Woolf, 25 August 1939

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I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your un-dumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap. But you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it would lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is just really a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this –But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defences. And I don’t really resent it.

- Vita Sackville West to Virginia Woolf

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daughterf
Oh my darling one, how long you wander from me, how weary I grow of waiting and looking, and calling for you; sometimes I shut my eyes, and shut my heart towards you, and try hard to forget you because you grieve me so, but you’ll never go away, oh you never will.

Emily Dickinson to Susan Gilbert

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recitandote
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ceciliando

Sou trinta passos para trás e duas curvas antes da próxima queda. Vezenquando a vida dói sem ponto final. Vezenquando essa dor vem num rompante entre desatinos da rotina e conclusões precipitadas. Deixo o sentir entrar como se não soubesse as consequências. Eu viro as costas para o vazio mesmo sabendo que é tudo o que vai restar. Pediria perdão se a voz não soasse melancólica. Pediria alento se parecesse correto. Lembro aquela da Elis dizendo sobre ser só, mas já sou. Sou só quando as luzes se apagam. Sou só quando penso em rascunhos às duas e meia da manhã. Um tanto de palavras me soam bonitas. os dedos desenham histórias, então eu mergulho, creio, até sorrio vez ou outra porque sentir tem desses momentos em que você se encontra ciente e amena. Gosto quando as palavras se encaixam entre meus anseios, ainda que haja peso. É bem verdade que em algum momento o mundo irromperá no meu peito, então eu viro pó. Existem horas que o ar falta nos pulmões sem motivo aparente, momentos inoportunos. Apenas direi que lateja como se não houvesse para onde ir. Vezenquando penso que fui feita para doer, mas aceitar seria demasiadamente triste. Eu sou a dor que ecoa nos espaços da costela enquanto lá fora faz nove graus. Sou erro que desce dos cílios e se perde na ponta dos dedos.

G.

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recitandote
“Não era uma flor de estufa. Amava o sol, a rua, a liberdade.”

— Capitães da Areia