“Here lies one whose name was written in water.” - John Keats
John Keats,
John Keats,
John,
Please put your scarf on.
This is one of the main reasons I want to go back to Rome. I’m not a freak; you are. Also, they should add those Seymour lines to his headstone.
“Most of life is so dull it is not worth discussing, and it is dull at all ages. When we change our brand of cigarette, move to a new neighborhood, subscribe to a different newspaper, fall in and out of love, we are protesting in ways both frivolous and deep against the not to be diluted dullness of day-to-day living.”
Love is a chain of love.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BB!
“I think always about somewhere else, somewhere else where everything is dancing, like people dancing in the streets, and everything is pretty, like children on their birthdays.”
Ernest Hemingway once won a bet by crafting a six-word short story, that can make people cry. Here it is.
(Source: ffunkkkya)
This is my paternal grandparents’ wedding day, May 22nd, 1957. I went through my late grandmother’s collection of photos this morning, had a good cry, then photographed some of them because scans are for losers. I adore her expression in this one, both of their expressions, really, they look so blissful.
Then I had another good cry because I found a book of poetry she gave me, which is one of my favorite books of poetry - it’s by a 19th century Serbian poet called Jovan Jovanovic Zmaj, who is a golden god and easily my favorite Serbian poet, perhaps favorite poet period. He wrote a lot for children, but this one’s called Djulici - Djulici Uveoci (Djulici is an old dialect word for “roses,” so it would translate loosely to Roses - Wilted Roses, only much more poetic), and its first part is all bliss, joy, happiness and love for his wife (whose name was Rose) and five children, and then the second part is all abyss, misery and helplessness caused by him surviving all of them because they all got ill and died. It’s terribly poignant and incredibly sweet at the same time and I can only go through a couple of those poems without tears streaming down my face. One of this world’s greatest injustices is that there is no English translation of it, or at least not one that I am aware of, so its genius is left untappable for most of you. Soz, guys. If I ever get confident/insane enough, I might try my hand at translating it, but don’t hold your breath.
Anyway, I’m off to either watch Batman Begins or catch up on blog reading I abandoned something like 8 months ago, and also to bathe in my own sweat and wait for the sun to go down so I can get rid of the blinds and get some fresh air in here. Which just happened (breaking news, I know). Ta-ta!
Capo di tutti capi.
J.D. Salinger’s letter to Hemingway from the hospital he was in during the war.
” I want to put some ice-skates on some Viennea girl’s feet again. That’s not much to ask of the Army.”
“…would postpone…?” “Would postpone” WHAT?
Also, that is it, I’m calling Hemingway Poppa from now on as well.
“This wallpaper is killing me. One of us has to go.” — Oscar Wilde’s tomb
