Stille Wasser Tief Wasser

295 notes

caravaggista:

Frederick Leighton, Cimabue’s Madonna Carried in Procession (1853-1855)

After [Cimabue’s] return to Florence he made for the church of S. Maria Novella a picture of our Lady, which work was of larger size than those that had been made before that time, and the angels that stand round, although they are in the Greek manner, yet show something of the modern style. Therefore this work caused such marvel to the people of that time, never having seen a better, that it was borne in solemn procession with trumpets and great rejoicing from the house of Cimabue to the church, and he himself received great honours and rewards.

- Giorgio Vasari, The Lives of the Artists

(via sappho-embracing-art)

558 notes

Literature is as old as speech. It grew out of human need for it, and it has not changed except to become more needed.
Steinbeck, John. (1962, December.) Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech.  (via wordsnquotes)

(via theclassicreader)

59,158 notes

Men still have trouble recognizing that a woman can be complex, can have ambition, good looks, sexuality, erudition and common sense. A woman can have all those facets, and yet men, in literature and in drama, seem to need to simplify women, to polarize us as either the whore or the angel. Natalie Dormer

(Source: nataliedomrer, via fearless-feminist)

85 notes

"Don’t you want to join us?" I was recently asked by an acquaintance when he ran across me alone after midnight in a coffeehouse that was already almost deserted. "No, I don’t," I said.
Franz Kafka, too cool for everyone, Prague, 1914 (via class-struggle-anarchism)

561 notes

caravaggista:

Elizabeth Adela Stanhope Forbes,  Will-o’-the-Wisp (c. 1900). Based on Fairies by the Irish poet William Allingham.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

-Excerpt from Fairies by William Allingham.

120 notes

A solitary, unused to speaking of what he sees and feels, has mental experiences which are at once more intense and less articulate than those of a gregarious man. They are sluggish, yet more wayward, and never without a melancholy tinge. Sights and impressions which others brush aside with a glance, a light comment, a smile, occupy him more than their due; they sink silently in, they take on meaning, they become experience, emotion, adventure. Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry. But also, it gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

(via journalofanobody)

145 notes

books0977:

Mrs Meigs at the Piano Organ (1883). William Merritt Chase (American, 1849–1916). Oil on canvas. 
Even before Chase was invited to join “The Ten,” his painterly style was shifting towards Impressionism. A master handler of light, Chase’s still lifes and portraits of this period are elegant and spirited. His later paintings reveal Whistlerian influences and generally contain a more limited palette than his early works.

books0977:

Mrs Meigs at the Piano Organ (1883). William Merritt Chase (American, 1849–1916). Oil on canvas. 

Even before Chase was invited to join “The Ten,” his painterly style was shifting towards Impressionism. A master handler of light, Chase’s still lifes and portraits of this period are elegant and spirited. His later paintings reveal Whistlerian influences and generally contain a more limited palette than his early works.

19 notes

bellebissett:

…as published
THE UNEXPRESS’D.
HOW dare one say it? After the cycles, poems, singers, plays, Vaunted Ionia’s, India’s—Homer, Shakspere—the long, long  times’ thick dotted roads, areas,  The shining clusters and the Milky Ways of stars—Nature’s  pulses reap’d,  All retrospective passions, heroes, war, love, adoration, All ages’ plummets dropt to their utmost depths, All human lives, throats, wishes, brains—all experiences’ utter- ance;  After the countless songs, or long or short, all tongues, all lands, Still something not yet told in poesy’s voice or print—something  lacking,  (Who knows? the best yet unexpress’d and lacking.)
 In Whitman’s Hand (link to manuscript)http://www.whitmanarchive.org/manuscripts/transcriptions/yal.00012.html

bellebissett:

…as published

THE UNEXPRESS’D.

HOW dare one say it?
After the cycles, poems, singers, plays,
Vaunted Ionia’s, India’s—Homer, Shakspere—the long, long
times’ thick dotted roads, areas,
The shining clusters and the Milky Ways of stars—Nature’s
pulses reap’d,
All retrospective passions, heroes, war, love, adoration,
All ages’ plummets dropt to their utmost depths,
All human lives, throats, wishes, brains—all experiences’ utter-
ance;
After the countless songs, or long or short, all tongues, all lands,
Still something not yet told in poesy’s voice or print—something
lacking,
(Who knows? the best yet unexpress’d and lacking.)


In Whitman’s Hand (link to manuscript)
http://www.whitmanarchive.org/manuscripts/transcriptions/yal.00012.html

(via paygeturner)