Armed workers of the German Revolution in the streets of Berlin, 1918.
Discarded Books. New York City. 1974.
Photographer: André Kertész
Princess out of School, Edward Robert Hughes
Part of a set of 20 small photographs, taken in the 1900s, found in a flea market in Brighton.
Calais Pier (detail), Joseph Mallord William Turner, 1803
[W]e are all divorced from life, we are all cripples, every one of us, more or less. We are so divorced from it that we feel at once a sort of loathing for real life, and so cannot bear to be reminded of it. Why, we have come almost to looking upon real life as an effort, almost as hard work, and we are all privately agreed that it is better in books. And why do we fuss and fume sometimes? Why are we perverse and ask for something else? We don’t know what ourselves. It would be the worse for us if our petulant prayers were answered. Come, try, give any one of us, for instance, a little more independence, untie our hands, widen the spheres of our activity, relax the control and we … yes, I assure you … we should be begging to be under control again at once.
Notes from the Underground — Dostoevsky (via jonpertwee)
Acropolis, Athens, Greece, (Erectheum, Caryatid Portico from the front), by Walter Hege 1928-30
Minun sisälläni kukkii maisema
jonka vain tämä katoavaisuus
I wish I were a poet. I’ve never confessed that to anyone, and I’m confessing it to you, because you’ve given me reason to feel that I can trust you. I’ve spent my life observing the universe, mostly in my mind’s eye. It’s been a tremendously rewarding life, a wonderful life. I’ve been able to explore the origins of time and space with some of the great living thinkers. But I wish I were a poet. Albert Einstein, a hero of mine, once wrote, ‘Our situation is the following. We are standing in front of a closed box which we cannot open.’ I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that the vast majority of the universe is composed of dark matter. The fragile balance depends on things we’ll never be able to see, hear, smell, taste, or touch. Life itself depends on them. What’s real? What isn’t real? Maybe those aren’t the right questions to be asking. What does life depend on? I wish I had made things for life to depend on.
Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close