eternal–return:

How does one hate a country, or love one? … I lack the trick of it. I know people, I know towns, farms, hills and rivers and rock, I know how the sun at sunset in autumn falls on the side of a certain plowland in the hills; but what is the sense of giving a boundary to all that, of giving it a name and ceasing to love where the name ceases to apply? What is love of one’s country; is it hate of one’s uncountry? Then it’s not a good thing. Is it simply self-love? That’s a good thing, but one mustn’t make a virtue of it, or a profession… . Insofar as I love life, I love the hills of the Domain of Estre, but that sort of love does not have a boundary-line of hate. And beyond that, I am ignorant, I hope.

Ursula K. Le Guin · The Left Hand of Darkness (1969)

(via bowling-with-skulls)

kafk-a:

kafk-a:

kafk-a:

kafk-a:

kafk-a:

i am such a big fan of not knowing things. that is the allure of this life for me. there are so many things i will never know and so many things i will only somewhat come to know. i love mystery. there is power in secrecy

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Kelly G. Wilson

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(via kafk-a)

metamorphesque:

The greatest hazard of all, losing one’s self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all.

The Sickness Unto Death, Søren Kierkegaard


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