wanderlust

People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.

—Diane Setterfield (via invio)

(via wuthering-heights)

Don’t ever mistake my silence for ignorance, my calmness for acceptance, or my kindness for weakness.

—Anonymous (via mermaidsongs)

(Source: quotelibrary.info, via so-divine)

I like the dark part of the night, after midnight and before four-thirty, when it’s hollow, when ceilings are harder and farther away. Then I can breathe, and can think while others are sleeping, in a way can stop time, can have it so – this has always been my dream – so that while everyone else is frozen, I can work busily about them, doing whatever it is that needs to be done, like the elves who make the shoes while children sleep.

—Dave Eggers, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (via mirroir)

(Source: fleurishes, via wuthering-heights)

Whoever battles monsters should take care not to become a monster too, for if you stare long enough into the Abyss, the Abyss stares back into you.

—Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good And Evil (via wuthering-heights)

(Source: keshiadeasis, via wuthering-heights)