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.

RAVENCLAW
{ wear }
886
misswendyd:

Pointed, brilliant, and perfect.

misswendyd:

Pointed, brilliant, and perfect.

edwardspoonhands:

This was extremely useful and interesting.

edwardspoonhands:

hazelshaw:

4 year old Henry is already outsmarting his dad

[x]

partyinthenunnery:

Greek Gods 

(thanks to chelidon for Greek help)

quixotic [kwik-sot-ik]”

(adjective) In our list of most interesting words, quixotic is the most romantic in every sense. To be quixotic means to be excessively romantic and chivalrous; illogical, idealistic, overall dreamy. It is viewed as an over-idealism filled with absurdity.  (via wordsnquotes)

1 week ago with 3,228 notes

la-rinascente:

Instead of leaking celebrity photos we could leak pdf versions of college textbooks? Idk just an idea

1 week ago with 288,595 notes

“This, too, is how disciplinary power works, by colonizing us from within, so we become the willing inhabitants of the worlds specified by our preferred narratives”

Foucault, 1980 (via indailylife)

2 weeks ago with 630 notes

I am here. Those three words contain all that can be said – you begin with those words and you return to them. Here means on this earth, on this continent and no other, in this city and no other, and in this epoch I call mine, this century, this year. I was given no other place, no other time, and I touch my desk to defend myself against the feeling that my own body is transient. This is all very fundamental, but after all, the science of life depends on the gradual discovery of fundamental truths.

I have written on various subjects, and not, for the most part, as I would have wished. Nor will I realize my long-standing intention this time. But I am always aware that what I want is impossible to achieve. I would need the ability to communicate my full amazement at “being here” in one unattainable sentence which would simultaneously transmit the smell and texture of my skin, everything stored in my memory, and all I now assent to, dissent from. However, in pursuing the impossible, I did learn something. Each of us is so ashamed of his own helplessness and ignorance that he considers it appropriate to communicate only what he thinks others will understand. There are, however, times when somehow we slowly divest ourselves of that shame and begin to speak openly about all the things we do not understand. If I am not wise, then why must I pretend to be? If I am lost, why must I pretend to have ready counsel for my contemporaries? But perhaps the value of communication depends on the acknowledgment of one’s own limits, which, mysteriously, are also limits common to many others; and aren’t these the same limits of a hundred thousand years ago? And when the air is filled with the clamor of analysis and conclusion, would it be entirely useless to admit you do not understand?

I have read many books, but to place all those volumes on top of one another and stand on them would not add a cubit to my stature. Their learned terms are of little use when I attempt to seize naked experience, which eludes all accepted ideas. To borrow their language can be helpful in many ways, but it also leads imperceptibly into a self-contained labyrinth, leaving us in alien corridors which allow no exit. And so I must offer resistance, check every moment to be sure I am not departing from what I have actually experienced on my own, what I myself have touched. I cannot invent a new language and I use the one I was first taught, but I can distinguish, I hope, between what is mine and what is merely fashionable. I cannot expel from memory the books I have read, their contending theories and philosophies, but I am free to be suspicious and to ask naïve questions instead of joining the chorus which affirms and denies.

Intimidation. I am brave and undaunted in the certainty of having something important to say to the world, something no one else will be called to say. Then the feeling of individuality and a unique role begins to weaken and the thought of all the people who ever were, are, and ever will be – aspiring, doubting, believing – people superior to me in strength of feeling and depth of mind, robs me of confidence in what I call my “I.” The words of a prayer two millennia old, the celestial music created by a composer in a wig and jabot make me ask why I, too, am here, why me? Shouldn’t one evaluate his chances beforehand – either equal the best or say nothing. Right at this moment, as I put these marks to paper, countless others are doing the same, and our books in their brightly colored jackets will be added to that mass of things in which names and titles sink and vanish. No doubt, also at this very moment, someone is standing in a bookstore and, faced with the sight of those splendid and vain ambitions, is making his decision – silence is better. That single phrase which, were it truly weighed, would suffice as life’s work. However, here, now, I have the courage to speak, a sort of secondary courage, not blind. Perhaps it is my stubbornness in pursuit of that single sentence. Or perhaps it is my old fearlessness, temperament, fate, a search for a new dodge. In any case, my consolation lies not so much in the role I have been called on to play as in the great mosaic-like whole which is composed of the fragments of various people’s efforts, whether successful or not.

I am here – and everyone is in some “here” – and the only thing we can do is try to communicate with one another.

Czeslaw Milosz, from My Intention (via violentwavesofemotion)

2 weeks ago with 972 notes

“There certainly is some reason a story attracted you, and you’re writing it trying to find out that reason.”

Robert Penn Warren (via theparisreview)

2 weeks ago with 473 notes

244
theparisreview:

Where are Hegel and Virginia Woolf now? The last in a week-long series of illustrations by Jason Novak, captioned by Eric Jarosinski.

theparisreview:

Where are Hegel and Virginia Woolf now? The last in a week-long series of illustrations by Jason Novak, captioned by Eric Jarosinski.

“'People have forgotten this truth', the fox said. 'But you mustn't forget it. You become responsible forever for what you've tamed. You're responsible for your rose.'”

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince (via bookmania)

2 weeks ago with 3,177 notes

Jupiter structural layer cake

literaryjukebox:

The joy of meeting and the sorrow of separation … we should welcome these gifts … with our whole soul, and experience to the full, and with the same gratitude, all the sweetness or bitterness as the case may be. Meeting and separation are two forms of friendship that contain the same good, in the one case through pleasure and in the other through sorrow… Soon there will be distance between us. Let us love this distance which is wholly woven of friendship, for those who do not love each other are not separated.

Simone Weil in a letter to her friend Joseph-Marie Perrin, quoted in Perrin’s Simone Weil As We Knew Her

Song: “When We’re Apart” by The Morning Benders

2 weeks ago with 181 notes