respirelejasmin

[respirelejasmin]

'walking woman' folding knife, c. 1925

[respirelejasmin]

Paul César Helleu (1859-1927, French) ~ Fille timide aux cheveux roux, 1913. Lithograph.

[Source: singerieltd.com]

[respirelejasmin]

"not nobler, just there."

Derek Walcott, from "Sea Canes", Collected Poems: 1948-1984 [ID'd]

[respirelejasmin]

“not a slither of light at the horizon / still the birds were bawling through the mists / terrible, invisible / a million small evangelists / how they sing: as if each had pecked up a smoldering coal / their throats singed and swollen with song / in dissonance as befits the dark world / where only travelers and the sleepless belong”

— sasha dugdale, “the dawn chorus”

[respirelejasmin]

Morocco, 1930-1949. Therese Le Prat

[respirelejasmin]

CYNHN, Naughty things MV

[respirelejasmin]

Detail of Rosaleen’s bedroom wall from The Company of Wolves (1984) :

Le Petit Chaperon Rouge et Le Loup by Gustave Doré, (1862).

[respirelejasmin]

Blue and Green

Virginia Woolf

GREEN

The pointed fingers of glass hang downwards. The light slides down the glass, and drops a pool of green. All day long the ten fingers of the lustre drop green upon the marble. The feathers of parakeets—their harsh cries—sharp blades of palm trees—green, too; green needles glittering in the sun. But the hard glass drips on to the marble; the pools hover above the dessert sand; the camels lurch through them; the pools settle on the marble; rushes edge them; weeds clog them; here and there a white blossom; the frog flops over; at night the stars are set there unbroken. Evening comes, and the shadow sweeps the green over the mantelpiece; the ruffled surface of ocean. No ships come; the aimless waves sway beneath the empty sky. It’s night; the needles drip blots of blue. The green’s out.

BLUE

The snub-nosed monster rises to the surface and spouts through his blunt nostrils two columns of water, which, fiery-white in the centre, spray off into a fringe of blue beads. Strokes of blue line the black tarpaulin of his hide. Slushing the water through mouth and nostrils he sings, heavy with water, and the blue closes over him dowsing the polished pebbles of his eyes. Thrown upon the beach he lies, blunt, obtuse, shedding dry blue scales. Their metallic blue stains the rusty iron on the beach. Blue are the ribs of the wrecked rowing boat. A wave rolls beneath the blue bells. But the cathedral’s different, cold, incense laden, faint blue with the veils of madonnas.

[respirelejasmin]

'Red Riding Hood' from Grimm's Fairytales, illustrated by Emily Short, 2013.

[respirelejasmin]

A place is not only a geographical area; it's also a state of mind. And trees are not just trees; they are the ribs of childhood.

Mahmoud Darwish, Journal of an Ordinary Grief

[respirelejasmin]

~ Florence Harrison, illustration for Christina Rossetti: Poems (1910)

via internet archive

[respirelejasmin]

Wuthering Heights - Emily Brontë

[respirelejasmin]

source

[respirelejasmin]

The sky is clear. It’s warm. And I am writing to you, my dear life.  6 July 1926 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov [Illustration by Vladimir Nabokov, who was not only a novelist but also a renowned lepidopterist known for his scientific work on butterflies.]

[respirelejasmin]

We Have Not Long To Love, Tennessee Williams

[respirelejasmin]

- I saw her heart's core. - And how was it ? - Like a shrine, for it was holy; like snow, for it was pure; like flame, for it was warm; like death, for it was strong.

Shirley, Charlotte Brontë

[respirelejasmin]

July 30, 1928 Journals of Anais Nin 1927-1931 [volume 4]