pasinsky.

Greta. 24. Italy. "the poetry of the earth is never dead" [J.K.] Music, books, writing, photography, poetry and art. Ask me anything. Instagram: gretapasinsky. Ghost sideblog: fallenangelvexed

[natureell]

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Franz Kafka

[macrolit]

from ml.books

[matthewgrantanson]

Outpost, Cambria -- June 17th, 2023

Etsy

[spiritusloci]

Hertford College, Oxford

[greenest-tea]

Visit Original Link

And clenching your fist for the ones like us  who are oppressed by the figures of beauty,  you fixed yourself, you said, “Well never mind,  we are ugly but we have the music.“ 

[soft-lovely]

painting murals in an abandoned villa in tuscany, italy

[sensazioneultra]

BEIT HANUN, GAZA, PALESTINE - 2015/02/27

Photo by Ahmed Hjazy/Pacific Press/LightRocket via Getty Images

[lettersfromadreamgirl]

I am deeply saddened by the fact that I was not born into the era of love letters

[ltwilliammowett]

Seaman on the ‘Pommern’ enticing the ship’s cat up on of the shrouds, 1903

[youaremydarkside]

[wholeheartedsuggestions]

forget your astrology sign; tell me your favorite classic novel.

The Great Gatsby

Moby Dick

Jane Eyre

To Kill a Mockingbird

Little Women

Withering Heights

The Catcher in the Rye

Great Expectations

The Count of Monte Cristo

Dracula

Pride and Prejudice

somehow none of these

Voting ended onJan 30, 2025

i’m so sorry for the typo. justice for wuthering heights.

[freelance-philosopher]

“I think I could stand anything, any suffering, only to be able to say and to repeat to myself every moment, ‘I exist.’ In thousands of agonies — I exist. I’m tormented on the rack — but I exist! Though I sit alone in a pillar — I exist! I see the sun, and if I don’t see the sun, I know it’s there. And there’s a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there.”

— Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

[01libra]

-7c in oxford today ; can’t even be mad it looks so pretty

[trulyvincent]

Norwegian Coast by Moonlight Andreas Achenbach - 1848

[su-n-s-e-t]

[major-knighton]

Edmond Dantès and Jean Valjean are like opposite ends of a spectrum of "how does this 19th century French prison escapee who likes to wear disguises and fake identities a lot deal with his trauma?". And neither of them are doing it well, but they're still doing it in opposite ways.