Three Graces (1570 circa), Francesco Morandini (known as Poppi), oil on copper.
The Uffizi

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One Nice Bug Per Day

★
Claire Keane
Three Goblin Art

Love Begins

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Xuebing Du
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

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Mike Driver
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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@thetwink1e
Three Graces (1570 circa), Francesco Morandini (known as Poppi), oil on copper.
The Uffizi
“In moody sadness, on the giddy brink, I see him more with envy than with fear; He has no nice felicities that shrink From giant horrors; wildly wandering here, He seems (uncursed with reason) not to know The depth or the duration of his woe.”
— Charlotte Smith, from “Sonnet: On Being Cautioned Against Walking on an Headland Overlooking the Sea, Because It Was Frequented by a Lunatic”
“With wide-embracing love Thy spirit animates eternal years Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears Though earth and moon were gone And suns and universes ceased to be And Thou wert left alone Every Existence would exist in thee There is not room for Death Nor atom that his might could render void Since thou art Being and Breath And what thou art may never be destroyed.”
— Emily Brontë, from “No Coward Soul Is Mine”
21 Old Paintings With Funny Captions
“Hung on my bedroom wall is the quote attributed to Joan of Arc: “I am not afraid. I was born to do this.” However my life unfolds, goes my thinking, is how I am meant to live it; however my life unspools itself, I was created to bear it.”
— Esmé Weijun Wang, The Collected Schizophrenias
Anis Mojgani, In the Pockets of Small Gods
I feel full of the mystery of life at the moment. (Odd how things sometimes seem tinkling and empty and then full, full.) An overwhelming sensation that almost makes me speechless.
Iris Murdoch, from a letter to Wallace Robson written c. December 1951 (via antigonies)
“Honesty is difficult. It is easier to hide in the crowd and to drown one’s own guilt in that of the human race.”
— Søren Kierkegaard, Three Discourses on Imagined Occasions
She grasped it, and the autumn moon shone brighter - rendering the night soft and cold and safe.
Stephanie Perkins, from There’s Someone Inside Your House (via the-final-sentence)
honestly why does Mr. Darcy, a man from the late 1700s and early 1800s, understand that an independent female is an awesome thing more than people from 2017? also he respects her decision to reject him?
Because a woman wrote him.
“Peaches,” Adrienne Su
A crate of peaches straight from the farm has to be maintained, or eaten in days. Obvious, but in my family, they went so fast, I never saw the mess that punishes delay.
I thought everyone bought fruit by the crate, stored it in the coolest part of the house, then devoured it before any could rot. I’m from the Peach State, and to those
who ask But where are you from originally, I’d like to reply The homeland of the peach, but I’m too nice, and they might not look it up. In truth, the reason we bought so much
did have to do with being Chinese—at least Chinese in that part of America, both strangers and natives on a lonely, beautiful street where food came in stackable containers
and fussy bags, unless you bothered to drive to the source, where the same money landed a bushel of fruit, a twenty-pound sack of rice. You had to drive anyway, each house surrounded
by land enough to grow your own, if lawns hadn’t been required. At home I loved to stare into the extra freezer, reviewing mountains of foil-wrapped meats, cakes, juice concentrate,
mysterious packets brought by house guests from New York Chinatown, to be transformed by heat, force, and my mother’s patient effort, enough to keep us fed through flood or storm,
provided the power stayed on, or fire and ice could be procured, which would be labor-intensive, but so was everything else my parents did. Their lives were labor, they kept this from the kids,
who grew up to confuse work with pleasure, to become typical immigrants’ children, taller than their parents and unaware of hunger except when asked the odd, perplexing question.
shainblumphotography Gazing up at the night sky over Yosemite National Park. Watching all the little cars scurry around and the climbers on the sides of cliffs. It is really amazing the amount of activity that can be captured in a 4 hour timelapse sequence. I really hope you all enjoy it!
F L O R H A L M I S T
In order to write I must place myself into the void. In this void is where I exist intuitively. But it’s a terribly dangerous void: it’s where I wring out blood. I’m a writer who fears the snares of words: the words I say hide others—which? maybe I’ll say them. Writing is a stone cast down a deep well.
Clarice Lispector, A Breath of Life (via nemophilies)