[hitthefleur]

Edvard Munch, The Kiss, 1897.

[soracities]

Theodore Roethke, from "Vernal Sentiment", The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke [ID'd]

[weltenwellen]

Grief in Three Bodies: A Conversation by Victoria Chang, Prageeta Sharma & Khaty Xiong

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— fatima aamer bilal, from being unwanted is a language

[petaltexturedskies]

On an afternoon in October, or the beginning of November—a fresh watery afternoon, when the turf and paths were rustling with moist, withered leaves, and the cold blue sky was half hidden by clouds—dark grey streamers, rapidly mounting from the west, and boding abundant rain—

Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

[existential-celestial]

“November night. Brief note to self: Time to take myself in hand. To build into myself, to give myself backbone, however much I fail.”

— Sylvia Plath, from a journal entry featured in “The Unabridged Journals”

[soracities]

Anne Sexton ("The Truth the Dead Know") Charlotte Eriksson (Everything Changed When I Forgave Myself)

[starlit-pathways]

What goes too long unchanged destroys itself. The forest is forever because it dies and dies and so lives.

—Tales From Earthsea: Dragonfly, by Ursula Le Guin

[flowerytale]

Anaïs Nin, from The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5: 1947-1955

[Text ID: I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me — the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.]

[funeral]

D.W. Winnicott

[soracities]

Olivia Laing, The Lonely City

[soracities]

Loneliness is personal, and it is also political. Loneliness is collective; it is a city. As to how to inhabit it, there are no rules and nor is there any need to feel shame, only to remember that the pursuit of individual happiness does not trump or excuse our obligations to each another. We are in this together, this accumulation of scars, this world of objects, this physical and temporary heaven that so often takes on the countenance of hell.

Olivia Laing, The Lonely City (via soracities)

[heartsfemme]

my favourite thing about buying books secondhand is finding the things people used as bookmarks in books that they never finished. here’s some of my favourite things that i’ve found!

[contemporary-art-blog]

Katharina Fritsch, Tischgesellschaft, 1988

[archatlas]

The Last Shopkeepers

In the words of the artist Francesco Pergolesi:

Temple guardians of a little vanishing world, brave and full of passion, they valiantly defend the meeting places for human exchange and relationships, set in unpretentious frames, nibbled by the passing of time. As survivors on a tiny damaged raft , they face restlessness and greed, on a dangerous sea that doesn’t care about the past and its traditions, smashing together people and principles, obeying the march of progress.

Before it’s too late I shelter memories smelling of yellow paper, and “Ceci n'est pas une pipe” , like a freshly gathered broad bean listening to the gossip of old pilgrims, religiously sitting on green Formica chairs, conserving cloth in dusty trunks and expert hands. They cut cloth in the dead of night, while I preserve pure white clouds made by an ancient pink oven, as old as time ; work done by glue and saw, buds and sharp prickles, made by a real good morning and good night!

Images and text via

[butw0rldenough]

Festive winter Vogue covers from 1919-1929, pulled from the Vogue Archive.

(fall covers) (winter covers)

[soracities]

“December reigns. A smell of bread. A smell of pain. And now what will become of me?”

— Renée Brock, tr. by Linkhorn and Judy Cochran, from “Streets, A Song,” (via violentwavesofemotion)