Margaret Preston (Australian, 1875-1963), Lorikeets, 1925. Hand-coloured woodcut, 25 x 24.5 cm.
Woman reading. New York Public Library, 1944.
“[His] library was a fine dark place bricked with books, so anything could happen there and always did. All you had to do was pull a book from the shelf and open it and suddenly the darkness was not so dark anymore.” ― Ray Bradbury, Farewell Summer
This is one more piece of advice I have for you: don’t get impatient. Even if things are so tangled up you can’t do anything, don’t get desperate or blow a fuse and start yanking on one particular thread before it’s ready to come undone. You have to figure it’s going to be a long process and that you’ll work on things slowly, one at a time. — Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood (via mamanell)
(Source: wordsnquotes, via mamanell)
Carwoola NSW, 2014
website / tumblr / flickr / blog
Netsuke depicting Raiden, the god of wind, thunder and lightning, Japan, 19th century, carved ivory.
Izis Bidermanas, Paris, 1949
(Source: killerbeesting, via calmapparente)
ulysses 2014 - me and some friends started reading the same version of james joyce’s ulysses together, adding our thoughts and comments in different colours to it. it is an amazing way to read such a book and you should definitely try it some day!
(Source: , via bestiario)
"Depression is such a cruel punishment. There are no fevers, no rashes, no blood tests to send people scurrying in concern. Just the slow erosion of the self, as insidious as any cancer. And, like cancer, it is essentially a solitary experience. A room in hell with only your name on the door."
(Source: thissickwonderland, via lundsdotter)
Rainer Maria Rilke in Nyon, Switzerland, ca. 1919
January 14, 1916
[ text is unclear ]
‘Featured this week are hand-painted postcards from World War I sent home in 1915 and 1916 by a 23-year old German soldier named Otto Schubert.’ (via Postcards from the Trenches: Design Observer)
And with deep breaths
he moved forward – step by step –
and prayed that no one
Christina A. Sharik
Came across this sweet sculpture of two hands joined together hidden away in the gardens of John Ruskin’s house in the Lake District. Very romantic!
Whoever you are: in the evening step out
of your room, where you know everything;
yours is the last house before the far-off:
whoever you are.
With your eyes, which in their weariness
barely free themselves from the worn-out threshold,
you lift very slowly one black tree
and place it against the sky: slender, alone.
And you have made the world. And it is huge
and like a word which grows ripe in silence.
And as your will seizes on its meaning,
tenderly your eyes let it go… — Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Images (via journalofanobody)