Current Mood: melencholy

Poetry, prose, gloom., {I put things here that I find interesting, beautiful, or akin to a friend}

[kayflapper]

Tulle and checkers. Photo by Edward Steichen, 1925.

[gloomiiest]

Risqué postcards by Léo Fontan, 1917.

[nuveau-deco]

Bat Belt Buckle. Designed by Ferdinand Erhart and made around 1908 in Paris. Medium is cast, chiseled and oxidised silver; dimensions: h. 6.7 cm x w. 13.2 cm x d. 3.2 cm. Musée d'Orsay inventory number: OAO 1334.

(Source: musee-orsay.fr)

[mournfulroses]

Anna Akhmatova, from a poem titled "Rachel," featured in The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova

[warmfuzzyphoto]

[postcard-from-the-past]

Parisian invoice clerk on a French vintage postcard

[edwardian-girl-next-door]

French postcard displaying the Pavillon de Suresnes, early 20th century.

via Musée d'histoire urbaine et sociale de Suresnes

[fawnvelveteen]

Alphonse Mucha | The Months - June, 1899.

[panbrioche]

Raise your hand if you too possess an intense, almost religious faggotry

[annori]

E.M. Forster from Maurice (1971)

[afranticmelencholy]

Sappho.

[havingapoemwithyou]

A not admitting of the wound (1188) by Emily Dickinson

[afranticmelencholy]

{Sorrel-Weed House, Savannah, GA}

[afranticmelencholy]

{Happy World Goth Day! Ft, my doppelgänger from the 1980s}

Some of my favourite goth bands are: Bauhaus, Voodoo Church, Love and Rockets, Siouxie and the Banshees

[museeeuuuum]

Happy International Museums Day! Please support your local museums

[somberlily]

But I've been reading Rebecca and THAT is an example of exemplary writing:

"I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say. They are not brave, the days when we are twenty-one. They are full of little cowardices, little fears without foundation, and one is so easily bruised, so swiftly wounded, one falls to the first barbed word. Today, wrapped in the complacent armor of approaching middle age, the infinitesimal pricks of day by day brush one lightly and are soon forgotten, but then—how a careless word would linger, becoming a fiery stigma, and how a look, a glance over a shoulder, branded themselves as things eternal. A denial heralded the thrice crowing of a cock, and an insincerity was like the kiss of Judas. The adult mind can lie with untroubled conscience and a gay composure, but in those days even a small deception scoured the tongue, lashing one against the stake itself."

[mournfulroses]

Albert Camus, from a notebook entry featured in The Complete Notebooks of Albert Camus