Text
Michael Banning, Light at the Top of the Stairs, 2024, Oil on canvas over panel
7K notes
·
View notes
Text
Kim Addonizio, from What Is This Thing Called Love: Poems; "''Round Midnight,"
6K notes
·
View notes
Text
There is a kind of sadness that comes from knowing too much, from seeing the world as it truly is. It is the sadness of understanding that life is not a grand adventure, but a series of small, insignificant moments, that love is not a fairy tale, but a fragile, fleeting emotion, that happiness is not a permanent state, but a rare, fleeting glimpse of something we can never hold onto. And in that understanding, there is a profound loneliness, a sense of being cut off from the world, from other people, from oneself.
Virginia Woolf
5K notes
·
View notes
Text
Kim Addonizio, “Ranchos De Taos, August”, Tell Me
639 notes
·
View notes
Text
“And why don’t you write? Write! Writing is for you, you are for you; your body is yours, take it. I know why you haven’t written. (And why I didn’t write before the age of twenty-seven.) Because writing is at once too high, too great for you, it’s reserved for the great — that is for “great men”; and it’s “silly.” Besides, you’ve written a little, but in secret. And it wasn’t good, because it was in secret, and because you punished yourself for writing, because you didn’t go all the way, or because you wrote, irresistibly, as when we would masturbate in secret, not to go further, but to attenuate the tension a bit, just enough to take the edge off. And then as soon as we come, we go and make ourselves feel guilty — so as to be forgiven; or to forget, to bury it until the next time.”
— Hélène Cixous, “The Laugh of the Medusa”
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
just the wind for a sound, softly by Carl Philips
187 notes
·
View notes
Text
if life is as short as our ancestors insist it is, why isn’t everything i want already at my feet by Hanif Abdurraqib
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
Much of what happens to us in life is nameless because our vocabulary is too poor. Most stories get told out loud because the storyteller hopes that the telling of the story can transform a nameless event into a familiar or intimate one. We tend to associate intimacy with closeness and closeness with a certain sum of shared experiences. Yet every day total strangers, who will never say a single word to one another, can share an intimacy. An intimacy contained in the exchange of a glance, a nod of the head, a smile, a shrug of a shoulder. A closeness which lasts for a second or for the duration of a song being sung and listened to together. An agreement about life. An agreement without clauses. A conclusion spontaneously shared between the untold stories gathered around the song.
Confabulations, John Berger
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
1K notes
·
View notes
Photo
Eclipse of the Sun in Venice in July 8, 1842 by Ippolito Caffi.
163K notes
·
View notes
Text
Mahmoud Darwish (trans. Mohammad Shaheen), Like a Hand Tattoo in an Ode by an Ancient Arab Poet
11K notes
·
View notes
Text
artemisia gentileschi was so girlboss for painting a self-portrait where she was carrying her own torture instrument. truly one of the biggest middle-finger in all of art history
10 notes
·
View notes
Text
Fossilized dragonflies. Annual report of the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian Institution. 1953.
Internet Archive
1K notes
·
View notes