Handsome young writers

[pastsandfutures]

[wehadfacesthen]

Tennessee Williams, playwright, 1950’s

via pastsandfutures

[lostfunzones]

Yukio Mishima, Paris, 1965.

[kvetchlandia]

Uncredited Photographer Herman Melville c.1860

"Of all the preposterous assumptions of humanity over humanity, nothing exceeds most of the criticisms made on the habits of the poor by the well-housed, well- warmed, and well-fed." Herman Melville, "Poor Man's Pudding and Rich Man's Crumbs" 1854

[kvetchlandia]

Peter Stackpole John Steinbeck, New York City 1937

"I wonder why progress looks so much like destruction?" John Steinbeck, "Travels With Charley: In Search of America" 1962

[dailykafka]

If you thought "ah, young Kafka! How old is he here? 17? 20 maybe?" WRONG! This is a full grown man at 27…

[holy-scraps]

George Platt Lynes, Tennessee Williams c. March 1944

[twixnmix]

James Baldwin photographed by Carl Van Vechten on September 13, 1955.

[vintage-every-day]

Francis Scott Fitzgerald, his wife Zelda and their daughter Scottie dance in their Paris home on Christmas 1925.

[kvetchlandia]

Mark Gerson     Playwright Harold Pinter, London     1960

“You’re dead. You can’t live, you can’t think, you can’t love. You’re dead. You’re a plague gone bad. There’s no juice in you. You’re nothing but an odor.”  Harold Pinter, “The Birthday Party”  1957

[idlesuperstar]

Christopher Isherwood at the window of his Berlin apartment, 1933, by Humphrey Spender

[laescrituradesatada]

Federico García Lorca

[electronicsquid]

Françoise Sagan

(Thomas McAvoy. 1955)

[kvetchlandia]

Uncredited Photographer     Herman Melville     c.1860

“Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunk Christian.” Herman Melville, “Moby-Dick; or, The Whale” 1851

[twixnmix]

James Baldwin photographed by Dave Pickoff in Harlem, June 1963. 

[bobdylan-n-jonimitchell]

James Baldwin and Bob Dylan, December 13, 1963.

[istmos]

Ingeborg Bachmann, 1962 by Mario Dondero

[kvetchlandia]

Elliott Kerouac     Jack Kerouac, New York City     1953

“I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.“ Jack Kerouac, “On the Road”  1957