Romantic love has been one of our most effective myths for making sense out of our sensations. It organizes bodily intensities around a single object of desire and it provides a more or less public theater for the enactment of the body’s most private life. In love, desires and sensations are both structured and socialized. The loved one invests the world with a hierarchy of desirability. At last we have a measure of value, and even the unhappiest lover can enjoy the luxury of judging (and controlling) his experience according to the distance at which it places him from the loved one’s image or presence. Passion also makes us intelligible to others. Observers may be baffled as to why we love this person rather than that one, but such mysteries are perhaps more than compensated for by the exceptional visibility in which the passionate pursuit of another person places the otherwise secret “formulas” of individual desire.
— Leo Bersani - The Hazards of Literary Fusion  (via performance-sofa)

(Source: barrennieces, via performance-sofa)

Virginia Woolf, The Waves

"I recorded ‘So Broken’ that infamous week for me, the week of the bomb. The only way for me to write a song about it was just to take the piss. I wrote it in my house hitting the table singing, ‘I’m so broken (in corny, overwrought voice), olé!’ I was going to have the sound of washing dishes and three kids screaming; it would be a soap opera. Then I went to the studio in Spain and met the flamenco guitarist who plays on the track and stayed there for six months recording."

- Björk-

(Source: soalreadytaken)

Because we don’t know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. And yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, an afternoon that is so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four, or five times more? Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless…
— The Sheltering Sky - Paul Bowles 

(Source: soalreadytaken)