shadowsandfog

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(Source: seafaringgypsy, via omyearsandwhiskers)

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She’d go on as if nothing had happened. That was the devilish part of her — this coldness, this woodenness, something very profound in her; an impenetrability.

Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway (via bloodisthenewblackk)

(Source: fuckyeahvirginiawoolf, via bloodisthenewblackk)

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(via lotusmodern)

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When you are five, you know your age down to the month. Even in your twenties, you know how old you are. I’m twenty-three you say, or maybe twenty-seven. But then in your thirties, something strange starts to happen. It is a mere hiccup at first, an instant of hesitation. How old are you? Oh, I’m—you start confidently, but then you stop. You were going to say thirty-three, but you are not. You’re thirty-five. And then you’re bothered, because you wonder if this is the beginning of the end. It is, of course, but it’s decades before you admit it.

Water for Elephants

(Source: pauchickapawow)

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