Anna Karina and Michel Subor on the set of “Le Petit Soldat”,1960
3:55 pm • 17 August 2014 • 12,242 notes
An illustrious group at the Cafe de Flore in 1930, including Serge Lifar, Marie-Laure de Noailles, Igor Stravinsky, and Coco Chanel.
3:55 pm • 17 August 2014 • 99 notes
“People discuss my art and pretend to understand as if it were necessary to understand, when it’s simply necessary to love.”
— Claude Monet (via theburnthatkeepseverything)
(Source: maddyblackattack, via theburnthatkeepseverything)
3:54 pm • 17 August 2014 • 184 notes
“One moment I’m happy; next I’m miserable. I hate her for half an hour, then I’d give my whole life to be with her for ten minutes; all the time I don’t know what I feel, or why I feel it; it’s insanity, and yet it’s perfectly reasonable. Can you make any sense of it?”
— Virginia Woolf, Night And Day
3:54 pm • 17 August 2014 • 290 notes
“I don’t want to stand before you
like a thing, shrewd, secretive.
I want my own will, and I want
simply to be with my will,
as it goes toward action.
And in the silent, sometimes hardly moving times,
when something is coming near,
I want to be with those who know
secret things or else alone.
I want to unfold.
I don’t want to be folded anywhere,
because where I am folded,
there I am a lie.”
— Rainer Maria Rilke (via observando)
3:54 pm • 17 August 2014 • 454 notes
have you ever had a dream of someone you haven’t seen or talked to in years and wonder if anyone ever randomly dreams about you too.
3:54 pm • 17 August 2014 • 50,557 notes
“Just because you fell in love with the river
doesn’t mean you must feed it your bones.”
— Jeanann Verlee, “Polyamory, with Knives,” published in Nailed Magazine (via bostonpoetryslam)
3:54 pm • 17 August 2014 • 7,364 notes
“- You know, Cat.. There are a lot of moments that make life worth living.
- Yes, but between these moments I wanna die for several times.”
— The Cat by Oleg Tischenkov (via adieufranz)
(Source: floriental, via theepitomeofsimplicite)
3:54 pm • 17 August 2014 • 80 notes
“You go away, and I seem not to exist for you. I don’t understand. I don’t know what you want, or what I am! You write to me like a lover, you treat me like a casual acquaintance! Casual acquaintance, no; but a friend, yes. I’ve always told you I foresaw that solution, and accepted it in advance. But a certain consistence of affection is a fundamental part of friendship. One must know what to hold on to. And just as I think we have reached that stage, you revert abruptly to the other relation, and assume that I have noticed no change in you, and that I have not suffered or wondered at it, but have carried on my life in serene insensibility until you chose to enter again suddenly into it. I have borne all these inconsistencies and incoherences as long as I could, because I love you so much, and because I am so sorry for things in your life that are difficult and wearing—but I have never been capricious or exacting, I have never, I think, added to those difficulties, but have tried to lighten them for you by a frank and faithful friendship. Only now a sense of my worth, and a sense also that I can bear no more, makes me write this to you.”
— Edith Wharton, from a letter to Morton Fullerton (via violentwavesofemotion)
3:54 pm • 17 August 2014 • 498 notes