“Događa se to u jesenjoj noći,
kada pada kestenje po asfaltu i kada se čuju psi u daljini,
i kada se tako neopisivo javlja čežnja za nekim,
tko bi bio dobar, naš, bliz, intiman, drug,
i kome bi mogli da pišemo pismo.
Ispovjedili bismo mu sve što leži u nama.
Pismo bi mu pisali a njega nema.”—M.Krleža, Čežnja (via latesummerblues)
“At the bottom of her heart, however, she was waiting for something to happen. Like shipwrecked sailors, she turned despairing eyes upon the solitude of her life, seeking afar off some white sail in the mists of the horizon. She did not know what this chance would be, what wind would bring it her, towards what shore it would drive her, if it would be a shallop or a three-decker, laden with anguish or full of bliss to the portholes. But each morning, as she awoke, she hoped it would come that day; she listened to every sound, sprang up with a start, wondered that it did not come; then at sunset, always more saddened, she longed for the morrow”—Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert (via black-wolves)