Dead Mother, 1910
François Durif, Sans-mot, 2013
Here comes a feeling you thought you’d forgotten…
Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire. The emotion derives from a double contact: on the one hand, a whole activity of discourse discreetly, indirectly focuses upon a single signified, which is “I desire you,” and releases, nourishes, ramifies it to the point of explosion (language experiences orgasm upon touching itself); on the other hand, I enwrap the other in my words, I caress, brush against, talk up this contact, I extend myself to make the commentary to which I submit the relation endure.
— Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments (via coffeegirl1700)
“Mother" (detail), 1895, Joaquín Sorolla.
419-421: Julius Ceasar by Nicolas Coustou, Details - Musée du Louvre, Paris
Mercury about to Kill Argus, 1818
Jupiter once had an affair with one of his wife Juno’s priestesses, but Juno found out and punished the priestess by turning her into a heifer, which she let a monster called Argus guard. Jupiter therefore asked his son Mercury, the flying messenger of the gods recognizable by his winged hat, to help with freeing the priestess. This was a difficult task as Argus had eyes all over his body. Cunningly, Mercury offered to play his shepherd’s pipe for Argus. Mercury played for so long that Argus eventually became tired and closed his many eyes. It is this exact moment that Mercury is about to take advantage of by killing Argus with his sword
La filosofía parece ocuparse sólo de la verdad, pero quizá no diga más que fantasías, y la literatura parece ocuparse sólo de fantasías, pero quizá diga la verdad.
— Sostiene Pereira - Antonio Tabucchi
My God is Yahweh. I don’t know him and I don’t want him to know me. He doesn’t show himself to me because he would kill me. I don’t pray to him - because there are also believers who don’t pray. My God doesn’t comfort. He is free - and I am free too. I can do anything; he allows me to do anything. Two free beings can only get on in love. I cannot love God.
— Mircea Eliade - The library of the Maharajah (via lechapeauviolet)
|| Sylvie, Propser d’Épinay, late 19th century
If you never do anything, you never become anyone.