[pmamtraveller]

foggy day in the Abbasid ruins of Salahdin, Iraq.

[fragrantblossoms]

Robert Farber Bodies Entwined 

[luckystarsstuff]

[ilcontephotography]

Tempietto Valadier, by Giuseppe Valadier (1828).

Genga, Italy.

© Roberto Conte (2021)

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[feral-ballad]

Vikram Seth, from Summer Requiem: A Book of Poems; “Sonnet”

[pneuuma]

Bertolt Brecht, Collected Poems (1913 - 1956)

[fawnaura]

William Carlos Williams, The Collected Earlier Poems

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

Betty Blue (Jean-Jacques Beineix, 1986)

[sacredwhores]

Andrzej Żuławski - Szamanka (1996)

[hyperions-fate]

Watching the American exploiters and their Eurotrash marcher lords compete to out-debase each other over the scraps of colonial power, one yearns only for the great wave that will wash their order away like rotted timber.

[hyperions-fate]

As it happened in Rome, with the wild hordes unconscious bearers of a distant but greater revolution, the curators of the greatest contributions of man, we wish for a powerful barbarian wave to come crashing through the gates of this bourgeois world.

Amadeo Bordiga, 'Onwards, Barbarians!' (1951)

[thirdity]

“Beauty is, in some way, boring. Even if its concept changes through the ages… a beautiful object must always follow certain rules. A beautiful nose shouldn’t be longer than that or shorter than that, on the contrary, an ugly nose can be as long as the one of Pinocchio, or as big as the trunk of an elephant, or like the beak of an eagle, and so ugliness is unpredictable, and offers an infinite range of possibility. Beauty is finite, ugliness is infinite like God.”

— Umberto Eco, On Ugliness

[sodiscreetlysympathetic-deactiv]

[edwordsmyth]

The Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice, Yasujirō Ozu (1952)

[mournfulroses]

Franz Kafka, from a letter to Felice Bauer written in 1912, featured in Letters To Felice

[feral-ballad]

Tishani Doshi, from Everything Begins Elsewhere; “Cutting Broccoli”

[deep-link-plata]

Doors to my favourite Buddhist Art Nouveau building in Nanjing

[thirdity]

“Our only real pleasure is to squander our resources to no purpose, just as if a wound were bleeding away inside us; we always want to be sure of the uselessness or the ruinousness of our extravagance. We want to feel as remote from the world as we can. As remote as we can: that is hardly strong enough; we want a world turned upside down and inside out. The truth of eroticism is treason.”

— Georges Bataille, Erotism: Death and Sensuality