radmuseu

[radmuseu]

The Beautiful Person (2008), dir. Christophe Honoré

[radmuseu]

[radmuseu]

[radmuseu]

yo it’s literally november 3rd. what’s next the 4th? and then. no it can’t be.

[radmuseu]

Amazing aurora spiral captured by David Cartier.

[radmuseu]

[radmuseu]

Henry Miller

[radmuseu]

The Mothman Prophecies 2002

[radmuseu]

[radmuseu]

“November is a hinge in the year, and the door gets opened to ghosts.”

— Nina MacLaughlin, from “On the First of November, the Ghosts Arrive”, The Paris Review (via voirlvmer)

[radmuseu]

Angel Guts: Nami *1979* Noboru Tanaka

[radmuseu]

[radmuseu]

[radmuseu]

[radmuseu]

La prima notte di quiete (Valerio Zurlini, 1972)

[radmuseu]

Alain Delon and Sonia Petrovna in 'Indian Summer'

1972

[radmuseu]

“Isolation has carved me in its image and likeness. The presence of another person – of any person whatsoever – instantly slows down my thinking, and while for a normal man contact with others is a stimulus to spoken expression and wit, for me it is a counterstimulus, if this compound word be linguistically permissible. When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of witty sociability with nobody. But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh: I lose my intelligence, I can no longer speak, and after half an hour I just feel tired. Yes, talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial, and in them intelligence gleams like an image in a mirror. The mere thought of having to enter into contact with someone else makes me nervous. A simple invitation to have dinner with a friend produces an anguish in me that’s hard to define. The idea of any social obligation whatsoever – attending a funeral, dealing with someone about an office matter, going to the station to wait for someone I know or don’t know – the very idea disturbs my thoughts for an entire day, and sometimes I even start worrying the night before, so that I sleep badly. When it takes place, the dreaded encounter is utterly insignificant, justifying none of my anxiety, but the next time is no different: I never learn to learn.”

— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of the Disquiet, 49 (trans. Richard Zenith)