“Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season: Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.”
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Chardin, Lady Taking Tea
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At the Hunterian this weekend and this painting was show stopping. Serene, honest, quiet, simplicity, vision. I never quite understood Diderot saying Chardin was the painter of truth before seeing this in person. Apparently Chardin is one of the painters lost most in reproduction
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Cotán, Still Life with Quince, Cabbage, Melon, and Cucumber (1602)
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What a remarkable painting. Spare yet deep. Brilliantly structured. Has there ever been painted any greater still life?
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Is Fournier the greatest cellist who ever lived? Signs point to yes.
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Sack that shit German cunt. Pathetic.
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Go there; sit down, and pray to gracious Priapus That I may lose my love for Daphnis. Say, should he grant this, at once I'll offer him A fine young goat.
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May Daphnis be possessed by such a yearning as a heifer feels when, worn out by a long search for her mate through copses and tall forest trees, she sinks down on the green sedge by a running water, folorn, forgetting to go home even as the dusk deepens into night.
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May Daphnis know desire like that, and I not care to cure him…
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How would you describe my ideology?
How would you describe my ideology?
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Long time Blue Labour Twitter poster has blocked me for suggesting Virginia Woolf is a great author lmfao.
Replying to @CapelLofft
Wow. To the Lighthouse is the most beautiful novel in the English language. Ridiculous that anyone who loves words could have this opinion.
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(And lest ye draw swords in his defence, see what he says about Moby Dick lmao)
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Perhaps the French are right, we are a nation of brutes. To privilege Trollope over Joyce...
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Is every modern nation like the tower, Half dead at the top? No matter what I said, For wisdom is the property of the dead, A something incompatible with life; and power, Like everything that has the stain of blood, A property of the living
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Astonishing, profound, wonderful, sublime. youtube.com/watch?v=qWHI8hw3…
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“Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast thise wintres wedres overshake, And driven away the large nightes blake. Saint Valentin, that art ful heigh on lofte, Thus singen smale fowles for thy sake”
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“The day gan folwen and the derke night, That reveth beestes from hir bisinesse Birafte me my book for lak of light, And to my bed I gan me for to dresse, Fulfild of thought and bisy hevinesse For bothe I hadde thing which that I nolde, And eek I nadde that thing that I wolde.”
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“One of Chaucer’s loveliest but most elusive poems” well, certainly one of the two at least.
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