There is surely nothing I hatefully mistrust or blindly trust more other than words themselves. You ride on eloquence and suddenly you are covering up sweet lies; You use the simplest phrases and you are unexpectedly getting close to sensations you are most certain that existed only before this world was made. You put all these things on paper and you’re burning yourself alive; You become one with the flames. One cannot help but eradicate oneself inside words which mean more than words.
To detach yourself elegantly from the world; to give contour and grace to sadness; a solitude in style; a walk that gives cadence to memories; stepping towards the intangible; with the breath in the trembling margins of things; the past reborn in the overflow of fragrances; the smell, through which we conquer time; the contour of the invisible things; the forms of the immaterial; to deepen yourself in the intangible; to touch the world airborne by smell; aerial dialogue and gliding dissolution; to bathe in your own reflecting fragmentation […]
—Emil Cioran, The Book Of Delusions (via violentwavesofemotion)
I said that the world is absurd, but I was too hasty. This world in itself is not reasonable, that is all that can be said. But what is absurd is the confrontation of this irrational and the wild longing for clarity whose call echoes in the human heart.
You’re as close as the heart I call my own.
—Anna Akhmatova, I Called Death Down (via violentwavesofemotion)
Brandon Sanderson, Warbreaker