#soul reader

This diary is my kief, hashish and opium pipe. This is my drug and my vice. ~ Anaïs Nin

[the-final-sentence]

But the moments where I can truly say ‘fuck it’ are magical because it is in those moments where I learn to be myself.

Rachel Anne Williams, from “Learning To Say ‘Fuck It’ To Passing” (via the-final-sentence)

[slavic-folklore]

[lesgardenias]

“Coffee should not be drunk in a hurry. It is the sister of time, and should be sipped slowly, slowly. Coffee is the sound of taste, a sound for the aroma. It is a meditation and a plunge into memories and the soul.”

—Mahmoud Darwish, from Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut, 1982

[the-night-picture-collector]

René Magritte, The Mystery of the Ordinary, 1926 - 1938

[punlovsin]

Frida

,

[chacoco]

[house-of-neptune]

[garadinervi]

From: Tristan Tzara, La rose et le chien: poème perpétuel, Illustrations by Pablo Picasso, PAB [Pierre André Benoit], Alès, 1958, BnF – Réserve des livres rares, Paris    

[metaphorformetaphor]

She is taken by a wave of feeling, a sea-swell, that rises from under her breast and buoys her, floats her gently, as if she were a sea creature thrown back from the sand where it had beached itself—as if she had been returned from a realm of crushing gravity to her true medium, the suck and swell of saltwater, that weightless brilliance.

Michael Cunningham, from The Hours

[thedudeleftthebuilding-deactiva]

[24hoursinthelifeofawoman]

The Conformist (1970) “Il conformista”

[zzzze]

Robert Doisneau Decor III, 1963 Gelatin silver print, printed c. 1963.

[24hoursinthelifeofawoman]

Alexander Rodchenko

[wehadfacesthen]

Eleanor Powell and Fred Astaire dancing to “Begin the Beguine” in Broadway Melody of 1940  (Norman Taurog, 1940)

[shirleymag]

“We eat the year away. We eat the spring and the summer and the fall. We wait for something to grow and then we eat it.”

— Shirley Jackson, We Have Always Lived in the Castle

[familiar-spirit]

“Dear March, how are you? And the rest? Did you leave Nature well? Oh, March, come right upstairs with me, I have so much to tell! I got your letter, and the bird’s; The maples never knew That you were coming, — I declare, How red their faces grew! But, March, forgive me — And all those hills You left for me to hue; There was no purple suitable, You took it all with you.”

— Emily Dickinson, from Part Two: Nature (LXXXVII) in “The Collected Poems Of Emily Dickinson”

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“I have never had such a feeling of complete understanding.”

— Martha Gellhorn, from a letter to Bertrand de Jouvenel c. May 1932