If you asked me now who I am, the only answer I could give with any certainty would be my name. For the rest: my loves, my hates, down even to my deepest desires, I can no longer say whether these emotions are my own, or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be.
, Brideshead Revisited
You’re so much richer than any memory. I can’t replace you, even with the most violent passion — it’s the flesh-and-blood you I need. But I’m not unhappy — I love you so much.
-Simone de Beauvoir, from Letters To Sartre
Kandinsky in the garden of Gabriele Münter, Murnau, Germany, c. 1910-1911.
You have golden tombs
in turbulent sunbeams
that wound you, sweet
in the vigor of Summer.
The sun carries off your soul
to make it into light.
-Federico García Lorca, Collected Poems (via theperfumemaker