Bon Iver Quotes

Emma is not a person; Emma is a place that you get stuck in; Emma is a pain that you cannot erase.

I told you to be patient, I told you to be fine, I told you to be balanced and I told you to be kind. Now all your love is wasted? Then who the hell was I?

I have buried you in every place I’ve been. You keep ending up in my shaking hands.

Every place I go, I take another place with me.

I was by myself for a pretty long time. I needed to do that. I think everyone that I know has wanted to do that or needed to do that at some point. I think when you spend enough time when it’s quiet around you and you don’t open your mouth for three or four days, there’s parts of your brain that can kind of rest. I think when we’re out in the world and we have to talk to people, we edit ourselves. You know, we have to like, act a little bit. As honest as we may be as humans, when we’re out here, we’re all kind of wearing mirrors on our faces. You know, constantly reacting to how to react to the people around you. And I think when you’re alone for a long enough time, you can feel a lot more peace.

Bon Iver released a new single two days ago. I’ve been storing it up for my train journey back to London for maximum wallowing.

Towers’ is the name of the dormitory that I lived in in college; it’s made up of these two towers – North and South – my girlfriend lived in one and I lived in the other. It’s about falling in love, but also about what happens when you’ve long fallen out of love and those reminders are still there. You drive by them, these two buildings, and you look, and you realise that we really built that up. That we really built that love into these things, and for a long time afterward looking at them really made me feel sad; to see these empty buildings that I don’t go in to anymore. But then, as time goes on, they start to become kind of joyous in their own way: you can look at them and think ‘that love was great and these buildings still stand tall’. But there’s also an element of the fact that they’re just buildings – they’re gonna fall down one day, and they’re not that important because there’s new love in your life and you’ve got to break things down that get built up.

What are the things that make adults depressed? The master list is too comprehensive to quantify (plane crashes, unemployment, killer bees, impotence, Stringer Bell's murder, gambling addictions, crib death, the music of Bon Iver, et al.) But whenever people talk about their personal bouts of depression in the abstract, there are two obstructions I hear more than any other. The possibility that one's life is not important, and the mundane predictability of day-to-day existence. Talk to a depressed person (particularly one who's nearing midlife), and one (or both) of these problems will inevitably be described. Since the end of World War II, every generation of American children has been endlessly conditioned to believe that their lives are supposed to be great -- a meaningful life is not just possible, but required. Part of the reason forward-thinking media networks like Twitter succeed is because people want to believe that every immaterial thing they do is pertinent by default; it's interesting because it happened to them, which translates as interesting to all. At the same time, we concede that a compelling life is supposed to be spontaneous and unpredictable-- any artistic depiction of someone who does the same thing every day portrays that character as tragically imprisoned (January Jones on Mad Men, Ron Livingston in Office Space, the lyrics to "Eleanor Rigby," all novels set in affluent suburbs, pretty much every project Sam Mendes has ever conceived, etc.) If you know exactly what's going to happen tomorrow, the voltage of that experience is immediately mitigated. Yet most lives are the same, 95 percent of the time. And most lives aren't extrinsically meaningful, unless you're delusionally self-absorbed or authentically Born Again. So here's where we find the creeping melancholy of modernity: The one thing all people are supposed to inherently deserve- a daily subsistence that's both meaningful and unpredictable-- tends to be an incredibly rare commodity. If it's not already there, we cannot manufacture it.

I’m in love with your honour. I’m in love with your cheeks.

Bon Iver, and the Fray,” I finally answer.

Bon Iver: Way too emotionally high stakes for casual listening in the sense that it makes every single part of your life feel like the part of a TV show where you are in a hospital saying goodbye for the very last time

Down along the creek I remember something Her, the heron hurried away When first I breeched that last Sunday, ooh

This is how we grow now, woman A child ignored These will just be places to me now

This is not the sound of a new man Or a crispy realization It's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away Your love will be Safe with me förlåt goodreads, vet att detta är en hemsida om författare och deras böcker, och låtskrivare klassas inte som författare på det sättet. MEN hade man funnit texter från några av Bon ivers låtar mellan ett par sidor i en bok hade man nog kunnat tro att det var poesi, och justin vernon var en poet. hoppas därför att det inte är olagligt att jag delar en rad från en sång, den har hjälpt mig så himla mycket.

Lost In The World" (feat. Justin Vernon of Bon Iver) [Sample From "Woods": Justin Vernon] I'm up in the woods, I'm down on my mind I'm building a still to slow down the time I'm up in the woods, I'm down on my mind I'm building a still to slow down the time I'm up in the woods, I'm down on my mind I'm building a still to slow down the time [Chorus 2x:] I'm lost in the world, I'm down on my mind I'm new in the city, and I'm down for the night Down for the night Said she's down for the night [Kanye West:] You're my devil, you're my angel You're my heaven, you're my hell You're my now, you're my forever You're my freedom, you're my jail You're my lies, you're my truth You're my war, you're my truce You're my questions, you're my proof You're my stress and you're my masseuse Mama-say mama-say ma-ma-coo-sah Lost in this plastic life, Let's break out of this fake ass party Turn this into a classic night If we die in each other's arms we still get laid in the afterlife If we die in each other's arms we still get laid [Chorus:] (I'm lost in the world) Run from the lights, run from the night, (I'm down on my mind) Run for your life, I'm new in the city, and I'm down for the night Down for the night Down for the night I'm lost in the world, been down for my whole life, I'm new in the city but I'm down for the night Down for the night Down for the night Who will survive in America? Who will survive in America? Who will survive in America? [Chorus:] I'm lost in the world, I'm down on my mind I'm new in the city, and I'm down for the night Down for the night Said she's down for the night I'm lost in the world, I'm down on my mind I'm new in the city and I'm goin' for a ride Goin' for a ride I'm lost in the world, been down for my whole life I'm new in the city but I'm down the for the night Down for a night, down for a good time [Gil-Scott Heron:] Us living as we do upside down. And the new word to have is revolution. People don't even want to hear the preacher spill or spiel because God's whole card has been thoroughly piqued. And America is now blood and tears instead of milk and honey. The youngsters who were programmed to continue fucking up woke up one night digging Paul Revere and Nat Turner as the good guys. America stripped for bed and we had not all yet closed our eyes. The signs of truth were tattooed across our open ended vagina. We learned to our amazement the untold tale of scandal. Two long centuries buried in the musty vault, hosed down daily with a gagging perfume. America was a bastard, the illegitimate daughter of the mother country whose legs were then spread around the world and a rapist known as freedom, free doom. Democracy, liberty, and justice were revolutionary code names that preceded the bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling in the mother country's crotch What does Webster say about soul? All I want is a good home and a wife And our children and some food to feed them every night. After all is said and done build a new route to China if they'll have you. Who will survive in America? Who will survive in America? Who will survive in America? Who will survive in America?

Right up until he looked around at a Bon Iver concert and saw a thousand copies of himself, and realised that he belonged to a group, a group of people who more than any other—at least in theory—hate everything about belonging to a group. He was a hipster. As a hipster he hated hipsters, and especially male hipsters. There was something insubstantial, unmanly, about that dreamy, idealistic striving for the natural, the original, the authentic; about a hipster trying to look like a lumberjack who lived in a log cabin and grew and shot his own food, but who was still an overprotected little boy who thought modern life, quite rightly, had stripped away all his masculinity, leaving him with a feeling of being helpless

Climb Is all we know When thaw Is not below us No, can't grow up In that iron ground Claire, all too sore for sound Bet Is hardly shown Scraped Across the foam Like they stole it And oh, how they hold it Claire, we nearly forfeit I, I'm growing like the quickening hues I, I'm telling darkness from lines on you Over havens fora full and swollen morass, young habitat All been living alone, where the ice snap and the hold clast are known Home We're savage high Come We finally cry Oh and we don it Because it's right Claire, I was too sore for sight I, we're sewing up through the latchet greens I, un-peel keenness, honey, bean for bean Same white pillar tone as with the bone street sand is thrown where she stashed us at All been living alone, where the cracks at in the low part of the stoning

Your life is not an episode of Skins. Things will never look quite as good as they do in a faded, sun-drenched Polaroid; your days are not an editorial from Lula. Your life is not a Sofia Coppola movie, or a Chuck Palahniuk novel, or a Charles Bukowski poem. Grace Coddington isn’t your creative director. Bon Iver and Joy Division don’t play softly in the background at appropriate moments. Your hysterical teenage diary isn’t a work of art. Your room probably isn’t Selby material. Your life isn’t a Tumblr screencap. Every word that comes out of your mouth will not be beautiful and poignant, infinitely quotable. Your pain will not be pretty. Crying till you vomit is always shit. You cannot romanticize hurt. Or sadness. Or loneliness. You will have homework, and hangovers and bad hair days. The train being late won’t lead to any fateful encounters, it will make you late. Sometimes your work will suck. Sometimes you will suck. Far too often, everything will suck - and not in a Wes Anderson kind of way. And there is no divine consolation - only the knowledge that we will hopefully experience the full spectrum - and that sometimes, just sometimes, life will feel like a Coppola film.

There’s something about listening to Bon Iver when everything is cold and barren that just feels right.

—Bon Iver, “Holocene

That was the moment I started crying all the time. Al the fucking time. I am a cry in-a-box-feel-o-matic whose arms wind up every time it gets quiet. Why does everyone know your goddamn name? Why is the moon in all of your fucking poems? I can't go outside. I order eggs like I am picking satin for my casket. The thing about being cracked open is suddenly you can feel everything even when you don't want to. I used to be a card catalogue. Alphabetical drawers. Convenient decimals. Now the sad sleeps in every crevice, every Whole Foods, every doctor's office, in the park, in the car, erupting from any Bon Iver song or Ingrid fucking Michaelson. I go to Bikram yoga so I can sob and no one notices.

Well, I've been carved in fire Well, I've been caught in fire I've been caught in fire, oh Well, I've been caught in fire I've been carved in fire I've been caught in fire What comes prior to? I've been caught in fire I stayed down the other night I've been caught in fire I stayed down (without knowing what the truth is) I've been caught in fire I stayed down the other night I've been caught in fire I stayed down (without knowing what the truth is) Fire (Fire)

Holocene" "Someway, baby, it's part of me, apart from me." You're laying waste to Halloween You fucked it friend, It's on its head, It struck the street You're in Milwaukee, off your feet ... and at once I knew I was not magnificent Strayed above the highway aisle (Jagged vacance, thick with ice) I could see for miles, miles, miles 3rd and Lake it burnt away, the hallway Was where we learned to celebrate Automatic bought the years you'd talk for me That night you played me 'Lip Parade' Not the needle, nor the thread, the lost decree Saying nothing, that's enough for me ... and at once I knew I was not magnificent Hulled far from the highway aisle (Jagged, vacance, thick with ice) I could see for miles, miles, miles Christmas night, It clutched the light, The hallow bright Above my brother, I and tangled spines We smoked the screen to make It what it was to be Now to know it in my memory: ... and at once I knew I was not magnificent High above the highway aisle (Jagged vacance, thick with ice) I could see for miles, miles, miles Bon Iver, Bon Iver (2011)

Everyone is asleep. I am playing Bon Iver; all the memories from the last time I played it, perhaps two years ago, flood back. Not as images but feelings. Only musiccan do this, can open the frozen tundra, but it is not only good, it also hurts. So much time passes, so much life is held back.

When you're out, tell your lucky one To know that you'll leave Don't you lock when you're fleeing I'd like not to hear keys Only hold till your coffee warms But don't hurry and speed

Climb Is all we know When thaw Is not below us No, can't grow up In that iron ground Claire, all too sore for sound