I discovered The Silent Woman, Janet Malcolm’s portrait of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, last fall and read it in just one sitting, the book in one hand and a champagne flute of white wine in the other. I had recently broken all of my wine glasses. I did not break them all at the same time. Some I broke while cleaning, and I was upset that I had managed to destroy something while trying to make it clean, make it better. Other glasses were broken using more theatrical methods, smashing them against walls to prove points. I had also recently broken my bed frame, cracked a rib, and wrecked a series of valuable relationships. Broken things had become my metric. It was fall and this book fell on my head in the Strand. It was fall and everything was falling out of place. It was fall and I felt, constantly, as if I were in a state of vertigo. I could go on. I won’t. — The Last Book I Loved: The Silent Woman by Michelle King. (via therumpus)
I found this book on a shelf of romance paperbacks in a Naples, Florida hotel. It was winter break of my sophomore year, everything was terrible, and I got an awful sunburn reading it on the beach for hours.
(Source: typhoidmary, via fuckyeahwomenfilmdirectors)
Gaston de Latenay, Nausikaa illustration, 1899
I had that Joanie Mitchell song stuck in my head for days, but this is definitely how I see clouds now: full of pink warrior goddesses.
(Source: 50watts.com, via survivalofantiquity)