I'm Jonathan, I'm twenty one, and I'm having a mad, passionate affair with every book I've ever read.

Paul Delaroche - The Young Martyr (1855)

(Source: marcuscrassus, via lifesanocean)

" I think the writer’s a reformer; the observer thing is very old, it goes back to Flaubert. I can’t write about something I don’t admire—it goes back to the old concept of the celebration: you celebrate the hero, an idea. "
Frank O’Connor

(Source: theparisreview)

(Source: pagets, via krissycupcake)

John Keats' letter to Fanny Brawne, June 1820.

“Upon my soul I have loved you to the extreme. I wish you could know the Tenderness with which I continually brood over your different aspects of countenance, action and dress. I see you come down in the morning: I see you meet me at the Window–I see every thing over again eternally that I ever have seen. If I get on the pleasant clue I live in a sort of happy misery, if on the unpleasant ’tis miserable misery(…) If I am destined to be happy with you here–how short is the longest Life–I wish to believe in immortality–I wish to live with you for ever(…) Let me be but certain that you are mine heart and soul, and I could die more happily than I could otherwise live.”

John Keats Collection, 1814-1891; MS Keats 1, Letters by John Keats. Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cambridge, Mass.

(Source: bookshavepores, via literaryartifacts)


Frank O’Hara and Laurence Ferlinghetti’s Lunch Poems correspondence

From The Paris Review:

the two poets hash out the details of the book’s publication: which poems to consider, their order, the dedication, and even the title. “Do you still like the title Lunch Poems?” O’Hara asks Ferlinghetti. “I wonder if it doesn’t sound too much like an echo of Reality Sandwiches or Meat Science Essays.” “What the hell,” Ferlinghetti replies, “so we’ll have to change the name of City Lights to Lunch Counter Press.”

These are so much fun to read. I love how he’s suggesting additions to the manuscript, and casually describes one of my favorite poems: as “a little poem about Lana Turner collapsing at a party which I don’t have with me. I will ask a friend of mine to find and send [it to you]…”

Also the contract:

“I like the contract a lot and am very cheered by the movie clause — if Terry Southern gets interested tell him he doesn’t have to stick to the plot at all, just send green”

Link: Lunch Poems: The 50th Anniversary Edition

(via literaryartifacts)

" I’ve been quite miserable. You’d call me selfish — but I feel it more and more; I feel the need to be alone with people who understand without having to try. I need that sense of effortlessness right there — I just refuse to hold back these days. I refuse to settle for some lucidity of mind in my own privacy and then no more energy left, no more vitality left to keep me going. It’s all anxiety and restlessness. And — I find it more and more hard to waste my time on people I don’t truly care about for I feel they don’t care enough either. Or they do care, in their own way, but it’s just not meaningful to me whatsoever. Does it all lie in my complete inability to receive? At any rate, I think they surely like the idea — that’s why they obviously keep coming around for tea! But at this point, I can’t have that — and there’s no point, really, for they don’t understand, ever, and in all my misery I am still pretty arrogant and demanding enough to believe that it is my right to wish to be felt rather than be understood but that doesn’t seem to happen either. So, here it is: is it possible? I ask. Is “emotion” possible without “understanding” of some sort? "
Virginia Woolf, from Selected Letters  (via fleurstains)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via lyingseason)