I think that one of these days you’re going to have to find out where you want to go. And then you’ve got to start going there.
— J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (via vagueblueeyes)
I am not afraid of my truth anymore and I will not omit pieces of me to make you comfortable.
— Alex Elle (via erosboros)
The world will knock you down plenty. You don’t need to be doing it to yourself.
— Elizabeth Scott (via impetrate)
Go all the way with it. Do not back off. For once, go all the goddamn way with what matters.
— Ernest Hemingway, from The Complete Short Stories (via violentwavesofemotion)
Inelegantly, and without my consent, time passed.
— Miranda July, No One Belongs Here More Than You  (via beautyisanillusion)
I’ll read my books and I’ll drink coffee and I’ll listen to music, and I’ll bolt the door.
— J.D. Salinger, A Boy in France (via larmoyante)
It takes a long time to fully become who you are.
— Bjork  (via navillus-nylamme)
It’s not that I can’t fall in love. It’s really that I can’t help falling in love with too many things all at once. So, you must understand why I can’t distinguish between what’s platonic and what isn’t, because it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.
— Jack Kerouac (via larmoyante)
Almost.
It’s a big word for me.
I feel it everywhere.
Almost home.
Almost happy.
Almost changed.
Almost, but not quite.
Not yet.
Soon, maybe.
I’m hoping hard for that.
— Joan Bauer, Almost Home (via larmoyante)
i hope you will go out and let stories happen to you.
— clarissa pinkola estés (via suparabbit)
People wait all week for Friday, all year for summer, all life for happiness
— (via impetrate)
She had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, like when you’re swimming and you want to put your feet down on something solid, but the water’s deeper than you think and there’s nothing there.
— Julia Gregson (via thatquote)
One day, a long time from now you’ll cease to care anymore whom you please or what anybody has to say about you. That’s when you’ll finally produce the work you’re capable of.
— J.D. Salinger, from a letter to Joyce Maynard (via perfect)