1. kafkaesque-world:

    The Trial (1962), dir. Orson Welles

    (Source: easymomentsandobsession)

  2. Poetry for an Album


    Feelings my friend
    wrote Schumann
    are stars which guide us
    only when the sky is clear
    but reason is a magnetic needle
    driving our ship on
    till it shatters on the rocks

    It was when my palsied finger
    stopped me playing
    the piano that calamity
    came upon me

    If you knew every cranny
    of my heart
    you would yet be ignorant
    of the pain my happy
    memories bring

    Carnaval time for the children
    with friends dressed up
    as Ormuzd and Ariman
    fleecy clouds of gold
    melting in the pure ether

    For years now I’ve had
    this same whistling
    sound in my ears
    and it troubles me greatly

    Walking by the Rhine
    I know I shall steer
    for the North I have yearned for
    though it be colder there
    even than the ice on
    geometry’s intersecting lines

    W.G. Sebald, transl. by Iain Galbraith (via whatokay)

  3. onlyoldphotography:

Hiroshi Sugitomo: Strait of Gibraltar, 1996


    Hiroshi Sugitomo: Strait of Gibraltar, 1996

  4. "Solvitur ambulando."
    - It is solved by walking. (via invisiblestories)

    (via undr)

  5. lelongdutemps:

Life is elsewhere
Sohrab Hura


    Life is elsewhere


    Sohrab Hura


    (via rawforms)

  6. "With greedy hands he digs for treasures and is happy if he finds worms"
    - Ivan Turgenev in a letter to Stasov, 1872 (via theultimateenigma)

    (via russkayaliteratura)

  7. midnightmartinis:

him - by elfie l.


    him - by elfie l.

  8. Lullaby

    Birth I gave you in a desert
    not by chance,
    for no king would ever hazard
    its expanse.

    Seeking you in it, I figure
    won’t be wise
    since its winter cold is bigger
    than its size.

    As you suck my breast, this vastness,
    all this width,
    feeds your gaze the human absence
    it’s filled with.

    Grow accustomed to the desert
    as to fate,
    lest you find it omnipresent
    much too late.

    Some get toys, in piles and layers,
    wrapped or bound.
    You, my baby, have to play with
    all the sand.

    See that star, at terrifying
    height, aglow?
    Say, this void just helps it, eyeing
    you below.

    Grow accustomed to the desert.
    underfoot, for all it isn’t,
    it’s most firm.

    In it, fate rejects a phantom
    faint or gross:
    one can tell for miles a mountain
    by a cross.

    Paths one sees here are not really
    human paths
    but the centuries’ which freely
    through it pass.

    Grow accustomed to the desert:
    flesh is not —
    as the speck would sigh, wind-pestered —
    all you’ve got.

    Keep this secret, child, for later.
    That, I guess,
    may just help you in a greater

    Which is like this one, just ever-
    lasting; and
    in it love for you shows where
    it might end.

    Grow accustomed to the desert
    and the star
    pouing down its incandescent
    rays, which are

    just a lamp to guide the treasured
    child who’s late,
    lit by someone whom that desert
    taught to wait.

    Joseph Brodsky

  9. "toska [tohs-kah]"
    - (noun) A Russian word – “Vladmir Nabokov describes it best: ‘No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.’” (via ancient-serpent)

    (Source: matadornetwork.com, via ancient-serpent)

  10. Poetic term: lullaby


    Joseph Brodsky’s poignant late poem to his infant daughter, “Lullaby” (“Birth I gave you in a desert”) echoes one of W. H. Auden’s most beautiful early lyrics, “Lullaby” (“Lay your sleeping head, my love”).  Reetika Vazirani (1962–2003) wrote a startling and inconsolable three-line poem called “Lullaby” (2002), which wounds:

    "I would not sing you to sleep.
    I would press my lips to your ear
    and hope the terror in my heart stirs you.”

     Edward Hirsch on this week’s poetic term: Lullaby.

  11. baptisedinblackwater:

"… a language in which every pronouncing of a word starts with a blind spot … " R\A\W M\A\T\E\R\I\A\L \ # 1563 \ Max Kuiper  \ 10\aug\14


    "… a language in which every pronouncing of a word starts with a blind spot … "

    R\A\W M\A\T\E\R\I\A\L
    \ # 1563
    \ Max Kuiper
    \ 10\aug\14

    (via rawforms)

  12. (Source: vietakadziesma)

  13. invisiblestories:

    “Cities have often been compared to language: you can read a city, it’s said, as you read a book. But the metaphor can be inverted. The journeys we make during the reading of a book trace out, in some way, the private spaces we inhabit. There are texts that will always be our dead-end streets; fragments that will be bridges; words that will be like the scaffolding that protects fragile constructions. T.S. Eliot: a plant growing in the debris of a ruined building; Salvador Novo: a tree-lined street transformed into an expressway; Tomas Segovia: a boulevard, a breath of air; Roberto Bolano: a rooftop terrace; Isabel Allende: a (magically real) shopping mall; Gilles Deleuze: a summit; and Jacques Derrida: a pothole. Robert Walser: a chink in the wall, for looking through to the other side; Charles Baudelaire: a waiting room; Hannah Arendt: a tower, an Archimedean point; Martin Heidegger: a cul-de-sac; Walter Benjamin: a one-way street walked down against the flow.”

    — Valeria Luiselli, “Relingos: The Cartography of Empty Spaces”

  14. "There comes a time when you look into the mirror and you realize that what you see is all that you will ever be. And then you accept it. Or you kill yourself. Or you stop looking in mirrors."