Carolynn Cecilia

Carolynn Cecilia. Fiction Writer. New Yorker. Whiskey drinker. Vegan. Stage Actress. Music Lover. Not necessarily in that order.


Lauren Bacall

(Source: judysgarland, via laughterkey)

“When I’m old and gray, I want to have a house by the sea. And paint. With a lot of wonderful chums, good music, and booze around. And a damn good kitchen to cook in.”

—   Ava Gardner  (via thatkindofwoman)

(Source: misswallflower, via thatkindofwoman)

“Would you like an adventure now, or shall we have our tea first?”

—   Peter Pan, J. M. Barrie  (via thatkindofwoman)

(Source: quotes-for-reference, via thatkindofwoman)

“You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.”

—   Ernest Hemingway (via duncanalonso)

(via worn-in-perfection)

“Though I may seem at times somewhat distant from you, through the gray mist of my own moods, I am never far; my thoughts always circle around you.”

—   Friedrich Nietzsche  (via yourclassyslut)

(Source: larmoyante, via yourclassyslut)



(via rusticpines)

“She loved three things — a joke, a
glass of wine, and a handsome man.”

—   W. Somerset Maugham, The Moon And Sixpence (via aesthetic—pleasures)


(via awomaninscience)


Test Shot: Bee Walker


Test Shot: Bee Walker

“Love doesn’t just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new.”

—   Ursula K. Le Guin  (via thatkindofwoman)

(Source: thesoutherly, via rusticpines)

There is no time in sport for tears. In football there are men, real mean—whatever that means—and they can’t cry unless maybe they’re the coach, in which case, okay, we’ll accept it as a possibility—after winning a big game, perhaps. Or the same thing, only losing. But not the players. The players, there are twenty-two of them on the field and they wear pads, I think, and I’m pretty sure, some helmets. It is maybe against the rules if you don’t have a helmet. Like riding a bike, only different. Sometimes they say “hike” and sometimes they say “hut” and sometimes they say “Blue! 42! Blue! 42!” though that may be a myth and anyways I’m pretty sure they all mean the same thing, or close to it, like love and cherish and miss. But there is—I’m quite sure of this—a ball involved. It is brown and swollen with stitches like the busted lips of a child, which, all in all, I imagine was the intended effect. Like life, there are rules about what you can and cannot do with the ball, what you can and cannot do with your body—though, unlike life, the penalties seem to be not so severe. It should be clear by now I know nothing about football. In this way it is very much like everything else—like croquet, say, or dying.

What I do know: in football when a player is injured the stands go quiet until he rises again and everyone claps for him—partly because they are glad he is all right, partly because it is something like a brave thing to take bodily injury on behalf of those of us who can’t, and partly because they are excited that the game, now, will continue. Partly because he wasn’t all right, partly because dying isn’t brave—partly because the game was just over, over—at my grandfather’s funeral not a single person clapped.

—   Against Everything by J.M. Gamble. (via therumpus)

(via therumpus)

“I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because ‘romantic’ doesn’t mean ‘sugary.’ It’s dark and tormented — the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can’t attain.”

—   Catherine Breillat (via thatkindofwoman)

(Source: liquidlightandrunningtrees, via thatkindofwoman)

That was just the kind of night I needed. Cocktails. Conversation. New blood. The right amount of flirtation. The right amount of laughter.