Go and get a job. Go and find a flat. Find somebody else. Put them in the flat. Make them stay. Get a toaster. Go to work. Get on the bus. Look at your boss. Say, “fuck”. Sit down. Pick up the thing. Go blank. Scream internally. Go home. Listen to the radio. Look at the other person. Think, “WHY? Why did this happen?”. Go to bed. Lie awake! At night! Get up. Feel groggy. Put the things on - your clothes - whatever they’re called. Go out the door, into work - same thing! Same people, again, it’s real, it is happening, to you. Go home again! Sit, Radio, Dinner - mmm, GARDENING, GARDENING, GARDENING, death!
— Dylan Moran (via i-live-alone-in-a-tree)
(via fuckyeahexistentialism)
The story is not in the words; it’s in the struggle.
— Paul Auster, The New York Trilogy (via fuckyeahexistentialism)
man fucks woman:
subject, verb, object.
subject, verb, object.
— Catharine MacKinnon (via earlyfrost)
(Source: firstwavefeminist, via fuckyeahexistentialism)
We’ve lost the light, the mornings, the holy innocence of the man who forgives himself.
— The Fall (La Chute)- Albert Camus.
‘I’m not sure if I should admit this. I’m afraid of uttering further obscenities. But I really feel that at that time I was experiencing the need for love. Disgusting, no? In any case, I had a vague sense of pain, a sort of deprivation that made me more empty and allowed me, partly through obligation, partly through curiosity, to undertake some commitments. Since I needed to love and be loved, I thought I was in love. In other words. I played the fool.’
-from The Fall (La Chute) by Camus.
