By Gabriel García Márquez, from One Hundred Years of Solitude (Harper & Row, 1970)
There is always something left to love.
(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction, via inthatfleetingmoment)
By Unknown (via pachipichi)
I’m a paradox. I want to be happy, but I think of things that make me sad. I’m lazy, yet I’m ambitious. I don’t like myself, but I also love who I am. I say I don’t care, but I really do. I crave attention, but reject it when it comes my way. I’m a conflicted contradiction. If I can’t figure myself out, there’s no way anyone else has.
(Source: staaaaaaahp, via unrealdreams)
By Robert Bringhurst, “What is Found in Translation” (via invisiblestories)
Poetry, I’m often told, is something made of words. I think it really goes the other way around: words are made of poetry.