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Conte De Printemps (Éric Rohmer, 1990)

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Hockneyville, John McAllister

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Is that you? Ian Howorth

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Raise the dead, Ian Francis

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Landscape suicide, Matt Jukes

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Mods & Sods, Yan Morvan

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Happy November, my dears!! 🍂🦔Excited for all the month has to give and looking forward to sharing it with family and friends. 🐿 (at Geneva, Switzerland)

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If

RUDYARD KIPLING

If you can keep your head when all about you       Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,     But make allowance for their doubting too;   If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,     Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,     And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;       If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster     And treat those two impostors just the same;   If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,     And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings     And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings     And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   And so hold on when there is nothing in you     Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,       Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,     If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute     With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,        And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

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To see a world in a grain of sand, And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour. 

-William Blake, poet, engraver, painter (1757-1827) 

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The sun is pure communism everywhere except in cities, where it's private property. 

-Malcolm De Chazal, writer and painter (1902-1981) 

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Read on September 25, 1999 in Vienna.To be invited to come here and teach, to lecture, to impart what knowledge I have collected about poetry, about song writing has left me with a whole host of c

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Seán O’Casey

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Science for dummies like me