when reason fails, the devil helps

[thegirlthatcriesacademia]

Virginia Woolf, A Passionate Apprentice: The Early Journals 1897-1909 

[ptactwo]

Illustrations of Epic of Gilgamesh by Marek Żuławski

[philomena-famulok]

©Philomena Famulok

2019/21

[mostly-history]

A partially-submerged tree near the pyramids as the Nile overflows its banks (Cairo, 1900).

[beanhusk]

these two lines are so !!!!!!!

[eliamatrell]

— STANISŁAW BARAŃCZAK.

[redlipstickresurrected]

Emilio Villalba (Mexican-American, b. 1984, Southern CA, USA, based San Francisco, CA, USA) - Don’t Worry, 2018  Paintings: Oil on Canvas

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

“Those that have crossed paths are not memories nor is the yellowish dove that sleeps in oblivion, they are faces with tears, fingers at the throat, and what falls down from the leaves: the darkness of a day gone by,”

— Pablo Neruda, from “There Is No Oblivion (Sonata),” transl. Donald D. Walsh, The Poetry of Pablo Neruda, ed. Ilan Stavans (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2003)

[weltenwellen]

Sylvia Plath, Winter Trees

[tinyghosts]

“Time is said to be irreversible. And this is true enough in the sense that ‘you can’t bring back the past,’ as they say. But what exactly is this ‘past?’ Is it what has passed? And what does ‘passed’ mean for a person when for each of us the past is the bearer of all that is constant in the reality of the present, of each current moment? In a certain sense the past is far more real, or at any rate more stable, more resilient thant the present. The present slips and vanishes like sand between the fingers, acquiring material weight only in its recollection.”

— Andrei Tarkovsky, from “Imprinted Time,” Sculpting in Time, trans. Kitty Hunter-Blair (University of Texas Press, 1987)

[megairea]

“It’s strange. I felt less lonely when I didn’t know you.”

— Jean-Paul Sartre, The Flies (tr. by Stuart Gilbert & Lionel Abel), 1943

[fungusamongusblog2]

[aozoramusume]

Setsuko Hara and Yoshiko Kuga in ‘Being a Woman’ (女であること) (1958)

[raeiyyn]

yi lu, sea summit: poems

yves olade, belovéd

[hungryfictions]

Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?

[endless-unfolding]

Childhood dotted with bodies.

Let them go, let them be ghosts.

                No, I said, make them stay, make them stone.

—Gregory Orr, “Origin of the Marble Forest,” in City of Salt

[deviika]

Fernando Pessoa // Franz Kafka