El discreto encanto de Maria

Prefiero ser cenizas que polvo. - Jack London

“She felt so old, so worn out, so far away from the best moments of her life that she even yearned for those that she remembered as the worst… Her heart of compressed ash, which had resisted the most telling blows of daily reality without strain, fell apart with the first waves of nostalgia. The need to feel sad was becoming a vice as the years eroded her. She became human in her solitude.”

One Hundred Years of Solitude (Cien años de soledad, 1967) Gabriel García Márquez  (via thehouseofwtf)

thehouseofwtf:

"What I’m increasingly noticing is the newspapers impede the advance of human consciousness; we have limitless potential to become glorious beings but they sort of hem us in into a padlock of ignorance and fear."

“She did not want to move, or to speak. She wanted to rest, to lean, to dream. She felt very tired.”

Virginia Woolf, The Years (via misswallflower)