"Eat, Pray, Love" Author Elizabeth Gilbert muses on the impossible things we expect from artists and geniuses — and shares the radical idea that, instead of the rare person "being" a genius, all of us "have" a genius. It’s a funny, personal and surprisingly moving talk.

We need this. We do.



for Lou

In the end, there are five bear cubs underneath your porch. You name them after U.S. Presidents. Taft dies of starvation. Carter disappears into the flowers. Hoover is carried away by hawks. Roosevelt digs into the ground to get away from ghosts. Lincoln grows up. Lincoln becomes a mother, with five cubs of her own. You are very proud of Lincoln. After Lincoln eats you, you adapt to your new life. You are still so proud of the bears you have given names to. Maybe they were dogs.


Recommended Reading: Three poems by Dalton Day at Hobart. (via millionsmillions)


(via myshoesuntied)

"every poem holds the unspeakable inside it, the unsayable, you know, not unspeakable as in taboo but the unsayable, the thing that you can’t really say because it’s too complicated, it’s too complex for us. Every poem has that silence deep in the center of it…"

Marie Howe

(Source: leecheen, via fuckyeahexistentialism)

"To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.—Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d!"

William Shakespeare, Hamlet 

But I really love!

(Source: observando)

"Such a small, pure object a poem could be, made of nothing but air, a tiny string of letters, maybe small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. But it could blow everybody’s head off."

Mary Karr, from Lit: A Memoir (Harper, 2009)

(Source: litpine, via apoetreflects)

"At the heart of all great art is an essential melancholy."

Federico García Lorca 

(Source: wordsnquotes, via fuckyeahexistentialism)

"But, in certain cases, carrying on, merely continuing, is superhuman."

Albert CamusThe Fall 

(Source: robcam-wfu)


May 28, 2014 at 06:02PM

You have to understand!

(via lushlofts)

Yah noh. This is our reality.

"Its not about whether or not the shooter is racist. Its about how poor, black boys are treated as problems before we are treated as humans"

"If your floors aren’t wooden; then sorry. You might as well be homeless."

Mine aren’t either. So I’ve been homeless for quite a while now. I really need to get myself a home. I mean, I really deserve it. I’m doing all the right things, saying right things, I greet people and smile when I need to. Come on! I need a home!
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