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edwardianera:

Isolde by Gaston Bussière, 1911
eat me

On a hot steamy Monday in New Guinea

In the highly overrated month of June

I met him on a most suspicious field trip

Under a jungle moon

I thought he wanted me for my mind

For the sweet little quirks of my heart

Oh how could I be so blind

I should have known from the start

All he wanted was to eat me

He only thought of me as food

All he wanted was to eat me

How rude

How rude I know from his humble occupation

My native Adonis was into mastication

If I hadn’t fought him and taken a powder

I could have wound up some kind of chowder

Oh who would ever say with such delight

Nobody ate me

Thank God no one ate me last night

- eat me, jerry blatt

fuckyeaarthistory:

Rogier van der Weyden
St. Columba Altarpiece, detail: Adoration of the Magi
Oil on panel
1455
In the collection of die Alte Pinakothek, Munich
fuckyeaarthistory:

Gérard, François
Teresa of Ávila (detail)
1827
Maison Marie-Therese, Paris, France (?)
my brother’s drawing
more of his stuff here
Usually we walk around constantly believing ourselves. “I’m okay” we say. “I’m alright”. But sometimes the truth arrives on you and you can’t get it off. That’s when you realise that sometimes it isn’t even an answer - it’s a question. Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.
The Book Thief, Markus Zusak (via slychedelic)

(Source: fuckyeahliteraryquotes, via slychedelic)

I confess I do not believe in time. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. Let visitors trip. And the highest enjoyment of timelessness-in a landscape selected at random-is when I stand among rare butterflies and their food plants. This is ecstasy, and behind the ecstasy is something else, which is hard to explain. It is like a momentary vacuum into which rushes all that I love. A sense of oneness with sun and stone. A thrill of gratitude to whom it may concern-to the contrapuntal genius of human fate or to tender ghosts humoring a lucky mortal.
Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited by Vladimir Nabokov (via thechocolatebrigade)

(via thechocolatebrigade-deactivated)

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