mainromanoff

Latest Posts by mainromanoff

moths are precious

— Sophocles, Electra (translated by Anne Carson, with Introduction and Notes by Michael Shaw) (via lunamonchtuna)

The holy trinity:

“Dude” but like romantically

“Babe” but like platonically

“Sweetheart” but like rivalry

I am aware, sure, I am aware.

Catastrophically aware.

— Sylvia Plath, from “The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath”

A wall of leaves, 28-08-2021

“I do not suffer from insanity, I enjoy every minute of it”

— Edgar Allen Poe

Julian K. Jarboe, “As Tender Feet of Cretan Girls Danced Once Around an Altar of Love.” Everyone on the Moon is Essential Personnel

Mahmoud Darwish, from Unfortunately, It Was Paradise: Selected Poems; “The Hoopoe,”

Oh to be sleepy and crawl into bed with someone who's warm and safe and you know will take care of you in all the right ways

~The picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Peder Mønsted - Sunset over a forest lake, 1895 (details)

Jane Austen // Bao Phi

― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

When that disgusting season they call summer finally ends and you start feeling that sweet sweet autumn chill in the air

 when sylvia plath wrote “the silence depressed me. it wasn’t the silence of silence. it was my own silence.” and when anne carson wrote “why does tragedy exist? because you are full of rage. why are you full of rage? because you are full of grief.” and when jenny slate wrote “and i am getting older but i am not growing up and my heart is getting soft dark spots on it like a fruit that has gone bad.” and when virginia woolf wrote “to want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain.” and when susanna kaysen wrote “when you’re sad, you need to hear your sorrow structured into sound.” and when margaret atwood wrote “already my childhood seemed far away – a remote age, faded and bittersweet, like dried flowers. did i regret its loss, did i want it back? i didn’t think so…” and when gillian flynn wrote “i was not a lovable child, and i’d grown into a deeply unlovable adult.”

—Zara Ventris

ok so crying over a book is one of the most prominent sign of compassion for humanity. you’re crying over someone who isn’t really there, doesn’t really exist, but you still feel for them as if you've known them your entire life.

how to fall in love with life again

go cloud-gazing, lay down in the grass on a sunny day, or empty roads on a rainy day, stare up at the sky and let your mind wander.

read a book so complex that you don't understand anything, fill your arms with scrawled definitions.

writing poems and notes of kindness, hiding them for other people to find and pass along!

read passages of love in another language, untranslated and realise that love can surpass even the greatest of barriers.

find your favourite flower! hunt for it, research it, write an essay on why you love it and how much it means to you!

buy another copy of your favourite book, fill the pages with annotations and give it to a second hand shop for somebody else to experience it the way that you do.

fill a journal with moments of your life, even if you don't think they're very interesting.

listen to music whilst looking at the moon and stars, realising how beautiful life is.

visit an art gallery or a museum near you. become familiar with it, visit it until you know it inside out. make it your special place.

learn the little things about people, including yourself. find their favourite colour and why, find their music taste, their taste in books until you know them perfectly.

the small things! taking sips of warm beverages becomes the most comforting thing, closing your eyes for a moment on a bus and focusing on the lull of movement.

bake/cook your favourite treat. experiment and find the way that makes it taste simply ethereal.

“I can’t get you out of my mind tonight; the corner of the sofa where you sat is haunted for me by your presence, the whole flat seems full of you.”

— Vita Sackville-West, from a letter to Virginia Woolf written c. November 1926 (via f-ridaas)

Details: Design for The Magic Flute: The Hall of Stars in the Palace of the Queen of the Night, Act 1, Scene 6. 1847–49. By Karl Friedrich Schinkel.

Café Kiss and Tell Me More by Ron Hicks

“I wasn’t myself for a long time and nobody noticed”

are there any poems you have on home, if its ok to ask? i feel homesick for a home beyond my reach and thought i could come to you.

“I was in a place where nobody knew my heart even a little bit.”

— Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home

“it’s as if I had to go back home on foot, alone, barefoot not knowing where far away, everybody else went long ago”

— Hélène Cixous, Hyperdream (tr. Beverly Bie Brahic)

“[ON LOSING LOVE]: This is the model I propose. You are arriving home and as you approach the garage you try to work your routine magic. Nothing happens; the doors remain closed. You do it again. Again nothing. At first puzzled, then anxious, then furious with disbelief, you sit in the driveway with the engine running; you sit there for weeks, months, for years, waiting for the doors to open. But you are in the wrong car, in front of the wrong garage, waiting outside the wrong house. One of the troubles is this: the heart isn't heart shaped.”

— Julian Barnes, A History of the World in 10 and 1/2 Chapters

— James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

“‘I’m homesick all the time,’ she said, still not looking at him. ‘I just don’t know where home is. There’s this promise of happiness out there. I know it. I even feel it sometimes. But it’s like chasing the moon - just when I think I have it, it disappears into the horizon. I grieve and try to move on, but then the damn thing comes back the next night, giving me hope of catching it all over again.”

— Sarah Addison Allen, The Girl Who Chased the Moon 

“Wickedness has leaked into the home I made, / and I want to burn it down. Sister, tell me / how you stand the murderous fury. You there / still singing, I crave demolishing, to eat / explosives.”

— Ada Limón, Bright Dead Things; “Home Fires”

“At the core of all sighs is a name, a stone from the body’s last lost home.”

— Karen Solie, from “Days Inn,” Short Haul Engine

“To ask “Where is home?” as if there is one answer. To write home in a poem, like a poem could be a home—is this happy or sad?”

— Chen Chen, from “Craft Capsule: On Becoming a Pop Star, I Mean, a Poet”

“Feeling what we all feel: home is a forgotten recipe, a spice we can find nowhere, a taste we can never reproduce, exactly.”

— Richard Blanco, from “Mexican Almuerzo in New England”

— Ross Gay, from Bringing the Shovel Down; “Because”

“I want to ask was there ever one / moment when all of it relented, / when rain and ocean and their own / sense of home were revealed to them / as one and the same?”

— Eavan Boland, from In a Time of Violence

“I: Why not take the shorter way home. HT: There is no shorter way home.”

— Anne Carson, from Men in the Off Hours; “Interview with Hara Tamiki (1950)”

Valentino Haute Couture Fall 2015 Details

Resenting the male gaze but also being obsessed with how you’re perceived by others

Margaret Atwood /// Susan Sontag /// Real Men - Mitski /// Shame is an Ocean I Swim Across - Mary Lambert /// Birds of Prey (2020) /// post by jitterati /// Liquid Smooth - Mitski /// Jennifer’s Body (2009) /// Bravado - Lorde /// Diagnosis - Cynthia Cruz

Details of The Execution of Lady Jane Grey, 1833, by Paul Delaroche (1797-1856)