Everyone has his own reality in which, if one is not too cautious, timid or frightened, one swims. This is the only reality there is. — Henry Miller, “An Open Letter to All and Sundry”
From Stand Still Like the Hummingbird (via liquidnight)
lauramcphee:

Sylvia Plath, Self-Portrait
From Print Magazine’s “The Visual Art and Design of Famous Writers” by Steven Brower (there’s also a follow-up piece featuring even more writers)

From William S. Burroughs and Charles Bukowski to Henry Miller and Sylvia Plath, renowned writers of the twentieth century made paintings, drawings, and collages. These creative outpourings enhance our understanding of their authors’ written works, and stand on their own merits as well. Some of the art is whimsical; Mark Twain and Kurt Vonnegut, for instance, were inveterate doodlers. Other examples—such as the work of e.e. cummings—is astonishing in its mastery. Here is a look at the visual output of 19 literary greats.

lauramcphee:

Sylvia Plath, Self-Portrait

From Print Magazine’s “The Visual Art and Design of Famous Writers” by Steven Brower (there’s also a follow-up piece featuring even more writers)

From William S. Burroughs and Charles Bukowski to Henry Miller and Sylvia Plath, renowned writers of the twentieth century made paintings, drawings, and collages. These creative outpourings enhance our understanding of their authors’ written works, and stand on their own merits as well. Some of the art is whimsical; Mark Twain and Kurt Vonnegut, for instance, were inveterate doodlers. Other examples—such as the work of e.e. cummings—is astonishing in its mastery. Here is a look at the visual output of 19 literary greats.

Being Dead While You’re Alive — That’s Real Death.

Henry Miller & Anaïs Nin on Death and Dreams
from biblioklept

via billyjane (via frenchtwist)

(via frenchtwist)

I need to be alone. I need to ponder my shame and my despair in seclusion; I need the sunshine and the paving stones of the streets without companions, without conversation, face to face with myself, with only the music of my heart for company. — Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer (via liquidnight)
Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. there is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there. — Henry Miller (via clavicola)

(via mamarillo-deactivated20120417)

Let me be, was all I wanted. Be what I am, no matter how I am. — Henry Miller, from Henry Miller on Writing (via liquidnight)
Chaos is the score on which reality is written. — Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer (via libraryland)