A sad folk song from Western Samogitia, the old land of Curonians

Auga keime dagilelis 
Keime keimelie tėtušio dvarelie 
Mirė mano motinelė, mirė mano sengalvelė 
Palikau veina, veina siratelė
Aš nueisiu ont kapelių
Verksiu kukousiu gegutės balseliu
Kelkis, kelkis motineli, kelkis kelkis sengalveli 
Nuramink širdelį vargšei siratelei
A thistle grows in the backyard
The little backyard in dear father’s estate
My sweet mother has died, my dear old one  
I am now left on my own, just a lonely orphan  
I will go to the graves 
I will cry, I will moan in cuckoo’s voice 
Wake up, dear mother, get up, my old one 
And calm down the little heart to your poor orphan 

(via duoyen)

happy birthday you bastard

happy birthday you bastard

Everything is against the likelihood that [a work of genius] will come from the writer’s mind whole and entire. Generally material circumstances are against it. Dogs will bark; people will interrupt;
money must be made; health will break down. Further, accentuating all these difficulties and making them harder to bear is the world’s notorious indifference. It does not ask people to write poems and novels and histories; it does not need them. It does not care whether Flaubert finds the right word or whether Carlyle scrupulously verifies this or that fact. Naturally, it will not pay for what it does not want. And so the writer, Keats, Flaubert, Carlyle, suffers, especially in the
creative years of youth, every form of distraction and discouragement. A curse, a cry of agony, rises from those books of analysis and confession. ‘Mighty poets in their misery dead’—that is the burden of their song. If anything comes through in spite of all this, it is a miracle, and probably no book is born entire and uncrippled as it was conceived.

But for women, I thought, looking at the empty shelves, these difficulties were infinitely more formidable. In the first place, to have a room of her own, let alone a quiet room or a sound-proof room, was out of the question, unless her parents were exceptionally rich or very noble, even up to the beginning of the nineteenth century. Since her pin money, which depended on the goodwill of her father, was only enough to keep her clothed, she was debarred from such alleviations as
came even to Keats or Tennyson or Carlyle, all poor men, from a walking tour, a little journey to France, from the separate lodging which, even if it were miserable enough, sheltered them from the claims and tyrannies of their families. Such material difficulties were formidable; but much worse were the immaterial. The indifference of the world which Keats and Flaubert and other men of genius have found so hard to bear was in her case not indifference but hostility. The world did not say to her as it said to them, Write if you choose; it makes no difference to me. The world said with a guffaw, Write? What’s the good of your writing?

from A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf


Adam took them out

(via 5149eszter)


La chute des feuilles/Falling leaves, Otar Iosseliani, 1966

"You are young, you don’t have experiences."
"They mock you, and tell you off."
"Things are not so simple."


Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Woman Combing her Hair (1891). Collection of Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France. Via Pinterest.


Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Woman Combing her Hair (1891). Collection of Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France. Via Pinterest.

(via dada4you)

my conclusive thought after hours of lying in the dark wondering about fears, existentialism, oppressive power structures and alienation: ‘i should buy a teddy bear’


The Plaque Series

The concept art of Jenny Holzer.

(via 5149eszter)


i get anxiety because idk what will come after postmodernism

(via venetians)

According to Plato, we live chained inside a dark cave. We’re chained so all we can see is the black wall of the cave. All we can see are the shadows that move there. They could be the shadows of something moving outside the cave. They could be the shadows of people chained next to us.
Maybe the only thing each of us can see is our own shadow.
Carl Jung called this his shadow work. He said we never see others. Instead we see only aspects of ourselves that fall over them. Shadows. Projections. Our associations.
The same way old painters would sit in a tiny dark room and trace the image of what stood outside a tiny window, in the bright sunlight.
The camera obscura.
Not the exact image, but everything reversed or upside down.
Distorted by the mirror or the lens it comes through. Our limited personal perception. Our tiny body of experience. Our half-assed education.
How the viewer controls the view. How the artist is dead. We see what we want. We see how we want. We only see ourselves. All the artist can do is give us something to look at.

from ‘Diary’, Chuck Palahniuk

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