[hologramparade]

The Space In Between

[doppisensi]

Di lei ricordava tutto tranne il profumo. Seduto in un teatro con lei accanto che si protendeva per meglio sentire la musica. Arabeschi dorati e candelabri a muro e le lunghe pieghe del sipario come colonne ai lati del palco. Lei teneva la sua mano in grembo e lui sentiva l'orlo delle calze sotto la stoffa leggera del vestito estivo. Fermate quest'immagine. E adesso fate venire giù tutto il buio e tutto il freddo del mondo e andate all'inferno.

Cormac McCarthy, La strada (via doppisensi)

[masterpiecesindetail]

Still life by Pieter Claesz, 1629

[floralls]

[haidaspicciare]

Mario Scaccia, “A ciascuno il suo” (Elio Petri, 1967).

[liberanosacaritas]

Capii nel buio, in quell'odore di giardino e di pini, che quelle stelle non erano le mie.

Cesare amoremio Pavese, La luna e i falò. (via liberanosacaritas)

[reckless-tunes]

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“And now I know how Joan of Arc felt Now I know how Joan of Arc felt As the flames rose to her roman nose And her walkman started to melt”

[floriental]

Claude Nori

[hauntedbystorytelling]

Gianni Berengo Gardin :: Catania, 2001

more [+] by Berengo Gardin

[shihlun]

Fratelli Alinari, Palazzo Vecchio e Duomo, Firenze, 1889.

[foguponla]

Mountains should be climbed with as little effort as possible and without desire. The reality of your own nature should determine the speed. If you become restless, speed up. If you become winded, slow down. You climb the mountain in an equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion. Then, when you’re no longer thinking ahead, each footstep isn’t just a means to an end but a unique event in itself….To live only for some future goal is shallow. It’s the sides of the mountains which sustain life, not the top.

Robert m. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (via foguponla)

[ill-tumble-for-yah]

this aggression will not stand, man

[reckless-tunes]

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“We’re just two lost souls Swimming in a fish bowl Year after year Running over the same old ground”

[impepatadicozze]

[lelettere]

Fece allora un ultimo sforzo per cercare nel suo cuore il luogo dove gli si erano putrefatti gli affetti, e non poté trovarlo.

Gabriel García Márquez, Cent'anni di solitudine (via lelettere)

[russianist]

That spawn of the north, the snow-storm witch, screams and howls, sweeping the pavements under, blinding the eyes, powdering the fur collars and moustaches of people and the muzzles of shaggy beasts, but through the criss-cross of flying flakes, a small window gives off a cheery glow somewhere on high, even if it is on the fourth floor, in a cozy little room, by the light of the meagre stearine candles, to the bubbling of the samovar, a conversation that warms both heart and soul is in progress, the bright page of some Russian poet, who has been bestowed by God upon his Russia, is being read, and a youth’s young heart trembles in sublime ardour, as it never does even beneath a southern sky.

Nikolai Gogol, Dead Souls (via russianist)

[evrythingsucks]

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