“Cheating and lying aren't struggles, they're reasons to break up.”
― Between The Tides
― Between The Tides
“Lately I can't help wanting us
to be like other people.
For example, if I were a smoker,
you'd lift a match to the cigarette
just as I put it between my lips.
It's never been like that
between us: none of that
easy chemistry, no quick, half automatic
flares. Everything between us
had to be learned.
Saturday finds me brooding
behind my book, all my fantasies
of seduction run up
against the rocks.
Tell me again
why you don't like
sex in the afternoon?
No, don't tell me--
I'll never understand you
never understand us, America's strangest
loving couple: they never
drink a bottle of wine together
and rarely look at each other.
Into each other's eyes, I mean.”
― A Working Girl Can't Win
to be like other people.
For example, if I were a smoker,
you'd lift a match to the cigarette
just as I put it between my lips.
It's never been like that
between us: none of that
easy chemistry, no quick, half automatic
flares. Everything between us
had to be learned.
Saturday finds me brooding
behind my book, all my fantasies
of seduction run up
against the rocks.
Tell me again
why you don't like
sex in the afternoon?
No, don't tell me--
I'll never understand you
never understand us, America's strangest
loving couple: they never
drink a bottle of wine together
and rarely look at each other.
Into each other's eyes, I mean.”
― A Working Girl Can't Win
“You can talk with someone for years, everyday, and still, it won't mean as much as what you can have when you sit in front of someone, not saying a word, yet you feel that person with your heart, you feel like you have known the person for forever.... connections are made with the heart, not the tongue.”
―
―
“روز اول با خودم گفتم دیگرش هرگز نخواهم دید
روز دوم باز میگفتم لیک با اندوه و با تردید
روز سوم هم گذشت اما بر سر پیمان خود بودم
ظلمت زندان مرا میکشت باز زندان بان خود بودم
آن من دیوانه عاصی در درونم های و هو میکرد
مشتت بر دیوارها میکوفت روزنی را جستجو میکردد
میشنیدم نیمه شب در خواب های های گریه هایش را
در صدایم گوش میکردم درد لیال صدایش را
شرمگین میخواندمش بر خویش از چه بیهوده گریانی؟
در میان گریه مینالید دوستش دارم نمیدانی؟
روزها رفتند و من دیگر خود نمیدانم کدامینم
آن من سرسخت مغرورم یا من مغلوب دیرینم
بگذرم گر از سر پیمان میکشد این غم دگر بارم
مینشینم شاید او آید عاقبت روزی به دیدار”
―
روز دوم باز میگفتم لیک با اندوه و با تردید
روز سوم هم گذشت اما بر سر پیمان خود بودم
ظلمت زندان مرا میکشت باز زندان بان خود بودم
آن من دیوانه عاصی در درونم های و هو میکرد
مشتت بر دیوارها میکوفت روزنی را جستجو میکردد
میشنیدم نیمه شب در خواب های های گریه هایش را
در صدایم گوش میکردم درد لیال صدایش را
شرمگین میخواندمش بر خویش از چه بیهوده گریانی؟
در میان گریه مینالید دوستش دارم نمیدانی؟
روزها رفتند و من دیگر خود نمیدانم کدامینم
آن من سرسخت مغرورم یا من مغلوب دیرینم
بگذرم گر از سر پیمان میکشد این غم دگر بارم
مینشینم شاید او آید عاقبت روزی به دیدار”
―
“Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.
This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose...
...Describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty - describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds – wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. - And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it.”
―
This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose...
...Describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty - describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds – wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. - And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it.”
―
Brokenhearted
— 26 members
— last activity May 13, 2016 09:23AM
Welcome to Brokenhearted. I created this group for everyone of an alternative lifestyle to feel welcome, and to help them with any major drama in thei ...more
Dandelion - قاصدک
— 362 members
— last activity Aug 11, 2025 04:23AM
جغرافیای ِ کوچک من بازوان توست ای کاش تنگ تر شود این سرزمین من
هزار و یک کتابی که قبل از مرگ باید خواند
— 2586 members
— last activity Dec 05, 2021 12:19PM
در این گروه کتابهایی معرفی میشود که قبل از مرگ باید خواند... و نظر همه را میتونیم در مورد کتابهایی که معرفی شده بخوانیم و کلی بحثهای داغ و جالب داشته ...more
Peyman’s 2025 Year in Books
Take a look at Peyman’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
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