You Have Not Grown Old, And It Is Not Too Late

You have not grown old, and it is not too late

To dive into your increasing depths

Where life calmly gives out its own secrets.

- Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God

If Basil, Lord Henry and Dorian are all based off Wilde, (“Basil Hallward is what I think I am: Lord Henry is what the world thinks of me: Dorian is what I would like to be—in other ages, perhaps.”), does that mean that Dorian killing Basil means that who Wilde wished he was triumphed over who he is, and that Lord Henry lived longer than both Basil and Dorian means that what the world thinks of Wilde will be how he is remembered? 

books (re)read in 2018 — the book thief by markus zusak

I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things that she didn’t already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race-that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.

“We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm - yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.” 

literature posters; a room with a view by e.m. forster

You’re not reading this by accident.

Everything is going to be okay.

Breathe and remember that you’ve been in this place before.

You’ve been this uncomfortable, anxious and scared, and you survived.

Close your eyes and feel the universe within you making a way for you right now.

“When I arrived in Paris, your tears, breaking out again and again all through the evening, and falling over your cheeks like rain as we sat, at dinner first at Voisin’s, at supper at Paillard’s afterwards: the unfeigned joy you evinced at seeing me, holding my hand whenever you could, as though you were a gentle and penitent child: your contrition, so simple and sincere, at the moment: made me consent to renew our friendship.”

— Oscar Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas, De Profundis