Thaïs

Manfred Symphony by Tchaikovsky


amare-habeo:

František Kupka (Czech, 1871 – 1957) - Untitled, 1930
Watercolour over pencil on paper

amare-habeo:

František Kupka (Czech, 1871 – 1957) - Untitled, 1930

Watercolour over pencil on paper


Feche os olhos para todos os perigos & não tenha medo de morrer… é tudo imaginário & vazio & ótimo

Feche os olhos para todos os perigos & não tenha medo de morrer… é tudo imaginário & vazio & ótimo

(Source: japhyr)



(Source: namelesshere)


Heartless brute! she thought, but his indifference pleased her. He asked nothing of her either. She stretched her hand for a cigarette. And what would Martin say, she wondered, as she took the enamel box that turned from green to blue, as she opened it. Hideous? Vulgar? Possibly—but what did it matter what people said? Criticism seemed light as smoke this morning. What did it matter what he said, what they said, what anybody said, since she had a whole day to herself?—since she was alone? …


Then, as she watched, light moved and dark moved; light and shadow went travelling over the hills and over the valleys. A deep murmur sang in her ears—the land itself, singing to itself, a chorus, alone. She lay there listening. She was happy, completely. Time had ceased.


1914

(Source: gutenberg.net.au)


amare-habeo:

René Char (1907 - 1988)
The flower is in the flame. The flame is in the storm (La fleur est dans la flamme. La flamme est dans la tempête), N/D

amare-habeo:

René Char (1907 - 1988)

The flower is in the flame. The flame is in the storm (La fleur est dans la flamme. La flamme est dans la tempête), N/D


Surely one ought to know the character of the person with whom one might spend all one’s life; being a novelist, let him try to discover what sort of person she was. When he was with her he could not analyse her qualities, because he seemed to know them instinctively, but when he was away from her it sometimes seemed to him that he did not know her at all. She was young, but she was also old; she had little self-confidence, and yet she was a good judge of people. She was happy; but what made her happy? If they were alone and the excitement had worn off, and they had to deal with the ordinary facts of the day, what would happen? Casting his eye upon his own character, two things appeared to him: that he was very unpunctual, and that he disliked answering notes. As far as he knew Rachel was inclined to be punctual, but he could not remember that he had ever seen her with a pen in her hand. Let him next imagine a dinner-party, say at the Crooms, and Wilson, who had taken her down, talking about the state of the Liberal party. She would say—of course she was absolutely ignorant of politics. Nevertheless she was intelligent certainly, and honest too. Her temper was uncertain—that he had noticed—and she was not domestic, and she was not easy, and she was not quiet, or beautiful, except in some dresses in some lights. But the great gift she had was that she understood what was said to her; there had never been any one like her for talking to. You could say anything—you could say everything, and yet she was never servile. Here he pulled himself up, for it seemed to him suddenly that he knew less about her than about any one. All these thoughts had occurred to him many times already; often had he tried to argue and reason; and again he had reached the old state of doubt. He did not know her, and he did not know what she felt, or whether they could live together, or whether he wanted to marry her, and yet he was in love with her.

Chapter XVIII

(Source: gutenberg.org)



senfonikankara:

Purcell | Dido’s Lament

image
Stokowski Düzenlemesi



(Source: mystery-white-girl, via mystery-white-girl)


tattootemple:

Lotus / Koi - artwork and tattoo by Wang
www.tattootemple.hk

tattootemple:

Lotus / Koi - artwork and tattoo by Wang

www.tattootemple.hk




jaiete:

Tartini
Il trillo del Diavolo
The Devil’s trill 


tacomablue:

Katia reading

tacomablue:

Katia reading

(Source: tuttartpitturasculturapoesiamusica.com)


O Assinalado

Tu és o louco da imortal loucura, 

O louco da loucura mais suprema. 
A Terra é sempre a tua negra algema, 
Prende-te nela a extrema Desventura.

Mas essa mesma algema de amargura, 
Mas essa mesma Desventura extrema 
Faz que tu’alma suplicando gema 
E rebente em estrelas de ternura.

Tu és o Poeta, o grande Assinalado 
Que povoas o mundo despovoado, 
De belezas eternas, pouco a pouco…

Na Natureza prodigiosa e rica 
Toda a audácia dos nervos justifica 
Os teus espasmos imortais de louco!


Insultando o fado e a sorte
e a fortuna desigual,
a quem morrer sabe, a morte
nem é morte, nem é mal.

IV


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