evelyn waugh

my perpetual moods

“I am lonely, yet not everybody will do. I don’t know why, some people fill the gaps and others emphasize my loneliness. In reality those who satisfy me are those who simply allow me to live with my idea of them.”

anaïs nin, diaries

“my worst held-back secrets: everything / has to do with loving and not loving. This night will pass. / Then we have work to do.”

rumi, a night full of talking that hurts from rumi: the book of love

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june jordan, poem for nana from haruko / love poems

If you asked me now who I am, the only answer I could give with any certainty would be my name. For the rest: my loves, my hates, down even to my deepest desires, I can no longer say whether these emotions are my own, or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be.

evelyn waugh, brideshead revisited

You were crying and eating rice.

richard siken, i had a dream about you from crush

“Howl’s voice was presently heard shouting weakly, “Help me, someone! I’m dying from neglect up here!” Sophie snorted.”

diana wynne jones, howl’s moving castle

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louise glück, the garden from poems 1962-2012

I don’t want to see anyone. I lie in the bedroom with the curtains drawn and nothingness washing over me like a sluggish wave. Whatever is happening to me is my own fault. I have done something wrong, something so huge I can’t even see it, something that’s drowning me. I am inadequate and stupid, without worth. I might as well be dead.

margaret atwood, cat’s eye

bonus:

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donna tartt, the secret history

Sometimes I just want to be a young man from 20th century England, dressed in a crisp white button-down and tan trousers, maybe smoking a cigarette and gazing out the open window of my room at uni, or maybe sitting at my desk and pouring over texts written in Latin, or maybe wandering around the grounds of campus with my best friend/lover

If you asked me now who I am, the only answer I could give with any certainty would be my name. For the rest: my loves, my hates, down even to my deepest desires, I can no longer say whether these emotions are my own, or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be.
—  Evelyn Waugh
If you asked me now who I am, the only answer I could give with any certainty would be my name. For the rest: my loves, my hates, down even to my deepest desires, I can no longer say whether these emotions are my own, or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be.
—  Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited
If you asked me now who I am, the only answer I could give with any certainty would be my name. For the rest: my loves, my hates, down even to my deepest desires, I can no longer say whether these emotions are my own, or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be.
—  Evelyn Waugh

Oxford in those days, was still a city of aquatint. In her spacious and quiet streets men walked and spoke as they had done in Newman’s day; her autumnal mists, her grey springtime, and the rare glory of her summer days - such as that day - when the chestnut was in flower and the bells rang out high and clear over her gables and cupolas, exhaled the soft airs of centuries of youth. It was this cloistral hush which gave our laughter its resonance, and carried it still, joyously, over the intervening clamour.
                                          -Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited

Oxford, May 1st 2017, 7am.