— The Pond, Mary Oliver
[text ID: August of another summer, and / once again / I am drinking the sun / and the lilies again are spread / across the water.]
6K notes
·
View notes
Kazuyuki Futagawa Aqua Jade Tree 2008 Natural Pigment on Japanese Paper 112×162 cm.
2K notes
·
View notes
Beauty of my Dish – 人魚達の宴図|Banquet of Mermaids ~ 木村了子 | Ryoko Kimura Art works
3K notes
·
View notes
450 notes
·
View notes
Marjane Satrapi, from Persepolis, 2000
7K notes
·
View notes
“Love is a gift that springs from an unlit spot. Resin and rue. Even when I’m in the dark I’m in the dark with you.”
— Alice Fulton, from “It Befalls Us, An Exchanged Glance, Reflective Spasm,” in “Triptych for Topological Heart,” Poetry (July / August 2014)
606 notes
·
View notes
Fulfillment by Hugo Hoppener Fidus (1868-1948)
150 notes
·
View notes
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE (2005) dir. Joe Wright
2K notes
·
View notes
6 notes
·
View notes
Philipp Igumnov: Tminwf (2012)
2K notes
·
View notes
““The dragons! The dragons are avaricious, insatiable, treacherous, without pity, without remorse. But are they evil? Who am I, to judge the acts of dragons? …They are wiser than men are. It is with them as with dreams, Arren. We men dream dreams, we work magic, we do good, we do evil. The dragons do not dream. They are dreams. They do not work magic: it is their substance, their being. They do not do; they are.””
— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Farthest Shore
167 notes
·
View notes
136 notes
·
View notes
'Whispering Souls'. Chris Cyprus. 2021.
40K notes
·
View notes
ARTIST: Louise Bourgeois (French, 1911-2010)
WORK: The Welcoming Hands
MEDIUM: Bronze with silver nitrate
22K notes
·
View notes
3K notes
·
View notes
Luthien and Beren stealing Silmarils from Morgoth
661 notes
·
View notes
A landscape bleak and interminable. She thought it to be alive and she saw little merit in it. She spoke her virgin sins through the wicket. Once. Again. And then no more. Hell hung on longer. She saw the resurrect vomited up from the pit to wander vacanteyed and smoking through the streets. Blinking in the unaccustomed light. She woke from dreams of struggle. Of leaden fight. Some sat and she listened for the sound of rain on the seamed metal roof but the rain had stopped in the night and there was only the drip of water from the eaves. Something on the road. Something coming. Some sweatsoaked beast, some hooded and wheezing abhorrence atrundle upon the footpath. Just the faintest movement of the air like a gradient of ill come unshelved and drifting toward her lonely outpost.
– Cormac McCarthy, The Passenger
20 notes
·
View notes