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Vertigo. A heady, insuperable longing to fall.

Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being (trans. Michael Henry Heim)

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chloe sevigny photographed by annabel mehran for the ingénue magazine issue 3

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And how do I know that I am not the dream and you the reality, or that I am your dream rather than you being a dream I am dreaming?

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (tr. by Margaret Jull Costa)

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DO  YOU  REMEMBER  ? 

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She appreciated beautiful things just as she understood beauties of language.

Bertolt Brecht, from a journal entry written c. March 1942 (via 89words)

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Brigitte Bardot in Et Dieu… créa la femme (dir. by Roger Vadim, 1956).

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Her body is immortal, or rather it’s died so many deaths in so many men’s stories that she fears no longer. She is a ghost, inhabiting this body. She wonders if she can ever die.

How Much of These Hills Is Gold by C. Pam Zhang (via alinaandalion)

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The Sweet Sound of Death (Javier Setó, 1965)

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Around the World with Fanny Hill, 1974

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*Clears Throught*

*Posts*

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I look at her and I am seen. Her eyes follow me. She detects the state of my soul. She translates. I can’t escape her.

Hélène Cixous, from Hyperdream. (via xshayarsha)

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Rachel McAdams as Christine Passion (2013) dir. Brian De Palma

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MAGDALENA FRACKOWIAK FOR BIKINI LOVERS SS18

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She was looking into my eyes with that way she had of looking that made you wonder whether she really saw out of her own eyes; they would look on and on after everyone else’s eyes in the world would have stopped looking. She looked as though there were nothing on earth she would not look at like that,

Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

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La Dolce Vita (1960)

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Sleeping or waking, the world was a slippery game: fluid stage sets, drift and echo, reflected light.

— The Little Friend by Donna Tartt