Nº. 1 of  195

boggy billy

Those trees in whose dim shadow
The ghastly priest doth reign,
The priest who slew the slayer,
And shall himself be slain

—Thomas Babbington Macaulay, The Battle of the Lake Regillus

…She stood with her proud head looking forward
face stung with wet pine-needles, eyes shining
with tears and rain.
‘What are you doing up there?
You fool - you’ll catch your death.’
But she was giving herself entire to the rain
and the rain had given itself to her.
She threw back her hair dark-handed,
and looked into the far distance as if
she’d seen what no one else could see in it…

—Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Zima Junction

darksilenceinsuburbia:


Edgar Fernhout (1912–74).  Schedel (Skull), 1935.

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Edgar Fernhout (1912–74).  Schedel (Skull), 1935.

(via mudwerks)

arpeggia:

Mark Twain’s House, Hartford, CT

Photo by Frank C. Grace (Trig Photography)

(via sandysheets)

We were sitting about taking coffee
in the aerodome cafe at Copenhagen
where everything was brilliance and comfort
and stylish to the point of tedium.
The old man suddenly appeared
or rather happened like an event of nature,
in an ordinary greenish anorak
his faced scarred by the salt and burning wind,
ploughing a furrow through the crowded room
and walking like a sailor from the wheel.
His beard was like the white foam of the sea
brimming and glistening around his face.
His gruffness and his winner’s certainty
sent up a wave around him as he walked
through the old fashions aping modern fashions
and modern fashions aping old fashions.
He in his open collar and rough shirt
stepping aside from vermouth and pernod
stood at the bar demanding Russian vodka
and waving away soda with a ‘No’.
He with the scars marking his tan forearms
his filthy trousers and his noisy shoes
had better style than anyone in the crowd.
The solid ground seemed to quiver under
the heavy authority of that tread.
Somebody smiled across: ‘Look at that!
you’d think that was Hemingway,’ he said.
Expressed in details of his short gestures
and heavy motions of his fisherman’s walk.
He was a statue sketched in a rough rock,
one treading down bullets and centuries,
one walking like a man hunched in a trench,
pushing aside people and furniture.
It was the very image of Hemingway.
(Later I heard that it was Hemingway.)

—Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Encounter

(Source: cornflake, via ajourneyaround)

(Source: gaws, via jesuisperdu)

oldbookillustrations:

Eagle carrying off a child, in the Alps.
From Scribner’s Monthly vol. 1 (1870-71), New York.
(Source: archive.org)

oldbookillustrations:

Eagle carrying off a child, in the Alps.

From Scribner’s Monthly vol. 1 (1870-71), New York.

(Source: archive.org)

(via drtuesdaygjohnson)

nevver:

Nude with Street Scene, Roy Lichtenstein

nevver:

Nude with Street Scene, Roy Lichtenstein

mimbeau:

René Maltête
The Kiss - Paris 1950s

mimbeau:

René Maltête

The Kiss - Paris 1950s

(via dostoyevskyreader)

I have wanted to kill myself a hundred times, but somehow I am still in love with life. This ridiculous weakness is perhaps one of our more stupid melancholy propensities, for is there anything more stupid than to be eager to go on carrying a burden which one would gladly throw away, to loathe one’s very being and yet to hold it fast, to fondle the snake that devours us until it has eaten our hearts away?

—Voltaire, Candide: or, Optimism  (via davidlynchshair)

(Source: quotes-shape-us, via fuckyeahexistentialism)

La Haine

(Source: brendantheblob, via randomitus)

Nº. 1 of  195