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Peter, Paul and Mary · Well, Well, Well (1966) Well, well, well, who's that calling? Well, well, well, hold my hand Well, well, well, night is a-fallin' Spirit is a-movin' all over this land

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He was never Stefano, she seemed to discover suddenly, he was always the oldest son of Don Achille. And that thought, immediately, brought to the young face of her husband, like a revival, features that until that moment had remained prudently hidden in his blood but that had always been there, waiting for their moment. Oh yes, to please the neighborhood, to please her, Stefano had striven to be someone else, softening his features with courteousness, adapting his gaze to meekness, modeling his voice on the tones of conciliation; his fingers, his hands, his whole body had learned to restrain their force. But now the limits that he had imposed for so long were about to give way, and Lila was seized by a childish terror, greater than when we had gone down into the cellar to get our dolls. Don Achille was rising from the muck of the neighborhood, feeding on the living matter of his son. The father was cracking his skin, changing his gaze, exploding out of his body. And in fact look at him, he tore the nightgown off her chest, bared her breasts, clasped her fiercely, leaned over to bite her nipples. And when she, as she had always been able to do, repressed her horror and tried to tear him off her by pulling is hair, groping with her mouth as she sought to bite him until he bled, he drew back, seized her arms, pinned them under his huge bent legs, said to her contemptuously: What are you doing, be quiet, you're just a twig, if I want to break you I'll break you. But Lila wouldn't calm down, she bit the air, she arched to get his weight off of her. In vain. He now had his hands free and leaning over her he slapped her lightly with the tips of his fingers and kept telling her, pressing her: see how big it is, eh, say yes, say yes, say yes, until he took out of his pajamas his stubby sex that, extended over her, seemed like a puppet without arms or legs, congested by mute stirrings, in a frenzy to uproot itself from that other, bigger puppet that was saying, hoarsely, Now I'll make you feel it, Lina, look how nice it is, nobody's got one like this. And since she was still writhing, he hit her twice, first with the palm of his hand, then with the back, and so hard that she understood that if she continued to resist he would certainly kill her—or at least Don Achille would: who frightened the neighborhood because you knew that with his strength he could hurl you against a wall or a tree—and she emptied herself of all rebellion, yielding to a soundless terror, while he drew back, pulled up her nightgown, whispered in her ear: you don't realize how much I love you, but you will know, and tomorrow it will be you asking me to love you as I am now, and more, in fact you will go down on your knees and beg me, and I will say yes but only if you are obedient, and you will be obedient. When, after some awkward attempts, he tore her flesh with passionate brutality, Lila was absent. The night, the room, the bed, his kisses, his hands on her body, every sensation was absorbed by the single feeling: she hated Stefano Carracci, she hated his strength, she hated his weight on her, she hated his name and his surname. Elena Ferrante · The Story of a New Name (2012)

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Albertina Rasch

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A crest of breasts, eyelids and lips Storming the hilltop. Sylvia Plath · “Berck-Plage.” The Collected Poems (1981)

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Alphonse Mucha · Model, Paris (1899)

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I saw when it started and took me. And I saw when it started growing faint and ended. I'm not lying I hadn't taken any drug and it wasn't a hallucination. I knew who I was and who others were. Clarice Lispector · Água Viva (1973)

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Atelier Willinger · Tilly Losch (No date)

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It would be a very good idea to tell you today where I intend to wait for you, but I would suffocate by then if I were to name a place right now and then have to see this place for three days and three nights empty, waiting for me to arrive Tuesday at a certain hour. Is there as much patience as I need, Milena, anywhere in the world? Franz Kafka · June 25, 1920, Letters to Milena (1952)

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Kálmán Szöllősy · Bathers (c. 1930)

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The great rule of the artist . . . is to half forget himself the better to communicate. Inevitably this involves sacrifices. And this quest for an intelligible language whose role is to disguise the immensity of his objective leads him to say not what he likes but only what he must. Albert Camus · Intelligence and the Scaffold, Confluences (1943)

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The Doors · Indian Summer (1970)

I love you the best Better than all the rest

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I am not blind to the illusion of race, I am not blind to American history and the history of race. But I'm not bound by these matters alone. Now, could I write about a white character? Yes, I could, and I have. The reason you can't do this sometimes is because you don't know people. I've read that, overwhelmingly, white Americans live in neighborhoods or communities that are all white, so they don't have much personal contact with black Americans. They don't know us. They don't know how we talk. They don't know where we came from. They don't know our individual histories. They don't know our hearts. They have to project ideas on us that may have nothing to do with us whatsoever. This is the agony we're facing in America right now, so it's got to show up in our literature.

Charles Johnson · “The Art of Fiction No. 239.” The Paris Review #224 (Spring 2018)

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Bill Watterson · Calvin and Hobbes (June 28, 1988)

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How can anyone disappear so completely in such an age of everything tracked and known? Ali Smith · Winter (2017)

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Laurent Anastay Ponsolle · Mutine (2019)

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I luxuriate in this; I have been so tight and rigid since two months. Two months alone. I luxuriate in suddenly letting go and crying my insides out. I am tired and have been very discouraged by having sinus for so long, and that helps: all the despair, coming at me when I am most weak. I will read Hopkins: and, when our lives crack, and the loveliest mirror cracks, is it not right to rest, to step aside and heal; why must I rush on, dragging myself to classes: I don't really need that "escape" work offers: I need rest: I have enough, thank god, that I want to do, to read, to think about. Sylvia Plath · The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (2000)

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František Drtikol · Nude with ropes (1930)