the artist is present

tamburina:

Albrecht Dürer, Dead Bluebird

WOMEN WHEN THEY PUT THEIR CLOTHES ON IN THE MORNING

It’s really a very beautiful exchange of values when women put their clothes on in the morning and she is brand-new and you’ve never seen her put her clothes on before.

You’ve been lovers and you’ve slept together and there’s nothing more you can do about that, so it’s time for her to put her clothes on.

Maybe you’ve already had breakfast and she’s slipped her sweater on to cook a nice bare-assed breakfast for you, padding in sweet flesh around the kitchen, and you both discussed in length the poetry of Rilke which she knew a great deal about, surprising you.

But now it’s time for her to put her clothes on because you’ve both had so much coffee that you can’t drink any more and it’s time for her to go home and it’s time for her to go to work and you want to stay there alone because you’ve got some things to do around the house and you’re going outside together for a nice walk and it’s time for you to go home and it’s time for you to go to work and she’s got some things that she wants to do around the house.

Or … maybe it’s even love.

But anyway: It’s time for her to put her clothes on and it’s so beautiful when she does it. Her body slowly disappears and comes out quite nicely all in clothes. There’s a virginal quality to it. She’s got her clothes on, and the beginning is over.

Richard Brautigan, from Revenge of the Lawn

(Source: tamburina)

F. Scott Fitzgerald, in a letter to his daughter Scottie at college:

“Once one is caught up into the material world, not one person in ten thousand finds the time to form literary taste, to examine the validity of philosophic concepts for himself or to form what, for lack of a better phrase, I might call the wise and tragic sense of life.

By this I mean the thing that lies behind all great careers, from Shakespeare’s to Abraham Lincoln’s, and as far back as there are books to read—the sense that life is essentially a cheat and its conditions are those of defeat, and that the redeeming things are not “happiness and pleasure” but the deeper satisfactions that come out of struggle. Having learned this in theory from the lives and conclusions of great men, you can get a hell of a lot more enjoyment out of whatever bright things come your way.”

(Source: tamburina)

Trying my best to eat salad everyday (Taken with instagram)

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Nude // Radiohead

(Source: clavicola)

637 plays

“The girl never really lived, and so she has never really died. To you at least she was always a dream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare’s plays and left them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare’s music sounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched actual life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. Mourn for Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was strangled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio died. But don’t waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was less real than they are.” by Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

(Source: babyfaline, via clavicola)

…and I looked and looked at her, and knew as clearly as I know I am to die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere else. She was only the faint violet whiff and dead leaf echo of the nymphet I had rolled myself upon with such cries in the past; an echo on the brink of a russet ravine, with a far wood under a white sky, and brown leaves choking the brook, and one last cricket in the crisp weeds… but thank God it was not that echo alone that I worshipped. What I used to pamper among the tangled vines of my heart, mon grand poch radieux, had dwindled to its essence: sterile and selfish vice, all that I canceled and cursed. You may jeer at me, and threaten to clear the court, but until I am gagged and half- throttled, I will shout my poor truth. I insist the world know how much I loved my Lolita, this Lolita, pale and polluted, and big with another’s child, but still gray-eyed, still sooty-lashed, still auburn and almond, still Carmencita, still mine; Changeons de vie, ma Carmen, allons vivre quelque part o nous ne serons jamais spars; Ohio? The wilds of Massachusetts? No matter, even if those eyes of hers would fade to myopic fish, and her nipples swell and crack, and her lovely young velvety delicate delta be tainted and torn even then I would go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of your dear wan face, at the mere sound of your raucous young voice, my Lolita.

Excerpt from Vladimir Nabokov’s “Lolita”

(Source: clarabow, via clavicola)