fer1972:

Today’s Classic: Don Quijote de la Mancha

1. By Salvador Dalí (1960)

2. By Gustave Doré (1860)

3. By Honore Daumier (1870)

4. By Edy Legrand (1950)

5. By Pablo Picasso (1955)

(via bookporn)

Long enough you have dream’d contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light
and every moment of your life.

labellefilleart:

Scene from The Clerks Tale, William Russell Flint

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“We live in an age where we feel guilt whenever we have to cut someone off but the reality is that some relationships do need to die, some people do need to be unfollowed and defriended. We aren’t meant to be this tethered to the people in our past. The Internet mandates that we don’t burn bridges and keep everyone around like relics but those expectations are unrealistic and unhealthy. Simply put, we don’t need to know what everyone else is up to. We’re allowed to be choosy about who we surround ourselves with online and in real life, even if it might hurt people’s feelings.”

Ryan O’Connell, You Don’t Have To Be Friends With Everybody  (via sexual-feelings)

(via situpsandfruitcups)

(via situpsandfruitcups)

Were I Not Frail and Half Broken Inside

fishingboatproceeds:

Were I not frail and half broken inside,
I wouldn’t be thinking of them, who are, like me, half broken inside.
I would not climb the cemetery hill by the church
To get rid of my self pity.
Crazy Sophies,
Michaels who lost every battle,
Self-destructive Agathas
Lie under crosses with their dates of birth and death. And who
Is going to express them? Their mumblings, weepings, hopes, tears of humiliation?
In hospital muck and the smell of urine,
With their weak and contorted limbs,
And eternity close by. Improper. Indecent.
Like a dollhouse crushed by wheels, like
An elephant trampling a beetle, an ocean drowning an island.
Our stupidity and childishness do nothing to fit us
For this variety of last things.
They had no time to grasp anything of their individual lives,
Any principium individuationis.
Nor do I grasp it, yet what can I do?
Enclosed all my life in a nutshell,
Trying in vain to become something
Completely different from what I was.

Thus we go down into the earth, my fellow parishioners,
With the hope that the trumpet of judgment will call us by our names.
Instead of eternity, greenness and the movement of clouds.
They rise then, thousands of Sophies, Michaels, Matthews,
Marias, Agathas, Bartholomews.
So at last they know why
And for what reason?

–Czeslaw Milosz

(I first heard this poem read by Robert Hass on the NPR program Fresh Air, on September 21st, 2001.)

(via fishingboatproceeds)


Julie Andrews at the Academy Awards in 1965

Julie Andrews at the Academy Awards in 1965

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paraadiis:enchanting—ghost:

I recently learned that Sufjan wrote/plays the piano in this National tune.

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