That's miss Snuggeries to you.

Marie, 18, classy, sassy, smart ass-y. ENTP. Enthusiastic about the miracle of human consciousness, stories and anecdotes, stars and galaxies, philosophy, and certain fandoms. Highly opinionated chronic procrastinator. Just your average over-achieving aspiring anthropologist, really.

This is my commonplace book: a compilation of things I like, and stuff I have written. Viewer discretion is advised.

{ wear }





Anastasia as Giselle

Anastasia is Giselle

THANK YOU BALLETOMANEASSOLUTA these gifsets are perfect. <3

She omg


inconvenient love | you never should have started, but now you can’t stop



Where are Jane Austen, Borges, and Heidegger now? The first in a week-long series of illustrations by Jason Novak, captioned by Eric Jarosinski.


Where are Jane Austen, Borges, and Heidegger now? The first in a week-long series of illustrations by Jason Novak, captioned by Eric Jarosinski.

Eurydice- Margaret Atwood


He is here, come down to look for you.
It is the song that calls you back,
a song of joy and suffering
equally: a promise:
that things will be different up there
than they were last time.

You would rather have gone on feeling nothing,
emptiness and silence; the stagnant peace
of the deepest sea, which is easier
than the noise and flesh of the surface.

You are used to these blanched dim corridors,
you are used to the king
who passes you without speaking.

The other one is different
and you almost remember him.
He says he is singing to you 
because he loves you,

not as you are now,
so chilled and minimal: moving and still
both, like a white curtain blowing
in the draft from a half-opened window
beside a chair on which nobody sits.

He wants you to be what he calls real.
He wants you to stop light.
He wants to feel himself thickening
like a treetrunk or a haunch
and see blood on his eyelids
when he closes them, and the sun beating.

This love of his is not something
he can do if you aren’t there,
but what you knew suddenly as you left your body
cooling and whitening on the lawn

was that you love him anywhere,
even in this land of no memory,
even in this domain of hunger.
You hold love in your hand, a red seed
you had forgotten you were holding.

He has come almost too far.
He cannot believe without seeing,
and it’s dark here.
Go back, you whisper,

but he wants to be fed again
by you. O handful of gauze, little
bandage, handful of cold
air, it is not through him
you will get your freedom.

1 day ago with 298 notes



Pickpocket (1959)

“I have sea foam in my veins, I understand the language of waves.”

Jean Cocteau, from Le Testament d’Orphée (Les Éditions Cinégraphiques, 1960)

1 day ago with 13,755 notes

“We do not escape into philosophy, psychology, and art—we go there to restore our shattered selves into whole ones.”

 Anaïs Nin, In Favor of the Sensitive Man and Other Essays  (via thatkindofwoman)

3 weeks ago with 7,235 notes


Can you imagine living in a bubble for two years? Well, these people did it. Back in the 90s, Jane Poynter wanted to understand the delicate balance of the Earth’s ecosystem. So she and seven others moved into a sealed biosphere for 2 years and 20 minutes. (That last twenty minutes matters when you’re stuck in a giant bubble.) The challenges they faced — from spending 4 months making a single pizza to being short on oxygen — make for a pretty incredible story.

Hear her tell the story »



I illustrated something for! I’m just starting to explore digital painting so I tried it on this project. It was fucking hard. Hahahuhu. I tried the grungy look for this one because a polished look takes too much time. O.O

You guys can check out the awesome article by Diana Camacho here:
The 5 Coffeeshop Campers You See Everyday


Now I’m in one world, now in the other. I cannot stop it.

Through a Glass Darkly (Såsom i en spegel) | dir. Ingmar Bergman


Now I’m in one world, now in the other. I cannot stop it.

Through a Glass Darkly (Såsom i en spegel) | dir. Ingmar Bergman

“Love. I’m not capable of it, can’t even approach it from the side, let alone head-on. Nor am I alone in this—everyone is like this, the liars. Singing songs and painting pictures and telling each other stories about love and its mysteries and its marvelous properties, myths to keep morale up—maybe one day it’ll materialize. But I can say it ten times a day, a hundred times, “I love you,” to anyone and anything, to a woman, to a pair of pruning shears. I’ve said it without meaning it at all, taken love’s name in vain and gone dismally unpunished. Love will never be real, or if it is, it has no power. No power. There’s only covetousness, and if what we covet can’t be won with gentle words—and often it can’t—then there is force.”

Helen Oyeyemi, Mr. Fox (via theoryoflostthings)

3 weeks ago with 145 notes

“You think you’re going to win? Oh, my sweet summer children…”

Zeus, to both the Trojans and the Greeks (depending on which goddesses are pestering him for favours)

3 weeks ago with 76 notes


"For language to have meaning there must be intervals of silence somewhere, to divide word from word and utterance from utterance. He who retires into silence does not necessarily hate language. Perhaps it is love and respect for language which imposes silence upon him."

— Thomas Merton, “Disputed Questions”

3 weeks ago with 290 notes

What would you say is the poet's function: unto herself, unto her world, unto her society? What is the source of poetry? Why does poetry exist? Are the poet and the personality identical?



The poet, like any thinking being, is a kind of intercessor between world and Other. What the poet lets speak, chooses to let speak, is a world unto itself.

Every moment is inundated with excessive stimuli – an onslaught from streetlights, to the noise of an air-conditioner, to the deafening silence preceding sleep – and the poet chooses (or is under the illusion of choosing, since it is really the language which chooses, the language which speaks in us) out of an infinity, a single world – whether that be the world of light, the world of the air-conditioner, the world of sleep; and, in choosing, the poet shows how one world is connected to another and the whole.

This is the poet’s function within the greater discourse of the self, the world, the social – to mediate between each realm, and show how flimsy, if not entirely arbitrary, the division between each becomes when rendered, to show the silence that exists between the thing and the word for the thing. The silence between this self and the word for self. This world and the word: world.

For this reason, the poet and the “personality,” as you call it, are never identical. They are always separated by the interstice of signification, the difference that exists between thinking a word and putting it on the page.

Of course, this means that to speak of poetry – or any thing – is to inflict a kind of violence upon it. Poetry is everything I spoke of and none of it. The poet is everything and nothing.

3 weeks ago with 50 notes