Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
Virginia Woolf
I want to get to know you.
October 2010
“I think that all artists, regardless of degree of talent, are a painful, paradoxical combination of certainty and uncertainty, of arrogance and humility, constantly in need of reassurance, and yet with a stubborn streak of faith in their own validity no matter what.”
—Madeleine L’Engle
via oceanofmind
via oceanofmind
“Since everything is a reflection of our minds, everything can be changed by our minds.”
—Buddha
via oceanofmind, tobia
via oceanofmind, tobia
What I like best about myself ..is my audacity,
my courage. The ways I have found to be true to
myself without causing too much pain or damage..
What I hate so much is my vanity, my need to shine,
my need of applause and my sentimentality. I would
like to be harder. I cannot make a joke, make fun
of anyone, without feeling regrets.
Anaïs Nin
I’ve got to believe in myself. When I feel good about it, then I should rest before starting at it again.
Don’t get ahead of myself.
Unraveling the mystery of Madame Grès. By Holly Brubach
Born Germaine Emilie Krebs in Paris in 1903, she called herself Alix and borrowed Barton as a surname from an employer; in 1937 she married Serge Czerefkov, a Russian painter who signed his work with an anagram of his first name: ‘‘Grès.’’ Alix Grès was born. About her childhood and her family, not much is known, and Mears is forced to rely on Grès’s own account, though there seems to be no reason to believe that a woman who changes her name three times would tell the truth about her background. Mears makes a conscientious attempt to disentangle the conflicting strands of Grès’s biography, with inconclusive results. The so-called sphinx of fashion remains a mystery.
“The first represented clouds low and livid, rolling over a swollen sea: all the distance was in eclipse; so, too, was the foreground; or, rather, the nearest billows, for there was no land. One gleam of light lifted into relief a half-submerged mast, on which sat a cormorant, dark and large, with wings flecked with foam; its beak held a gold bracelet, set with gems, that I had touched with as brilliant tints as my palette could yield, and as glittering distinctness as my pencil could impart. Sinking below the bird and mast, a drowned corpse glanced through the green water; a fair arm was the only limb visible, whence the bracelet had been washed or torn.”
—Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
via harpy
via harpy
You fall into my lap in one hundred pieces. I keep them in a jar by the bed. The jar I made for you. Sometimes when I go out I take parts of you with me. The butcher asks me how you are doing. I say fine thank you. He doesn’t know I have your smile in my pocket. The tailor asks me what you have been up to. I tell her you’ve been busy. You are all over the place these days. She doesn’t know I keep your tongue in my wallet. When I see people that look sad I give them a part of you. There is a lady uptown with your eyes. A little boy down the block has your hands. It is the least I can do. At night I dump you out on the bed. I run my hands over your parts and imagine what it would be like to put you back together. What it would be like to curl your hair into my palms.
Lyndsey Cohen, How I Spent My Summer Vacation
via septembrist
“I was sand, I was snow—written on, rewritten, smoothed over.”
—Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
via risely-evan
via risely-evan
