(Source: butthorn)

centuriespast:

i12bent:Francisco Goya (Mar 30, 1746 - 1828): The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters - No. 43 from Los Caprichos (The Caprices), 1796-98; published 1799 - Etching and aquatint

next time someone asks me how grad school is going i will direct them to this image

desolatefield:

thekeri:

My life has turned into this.

I feel like I hear “YO FUCK THIS BOOK BULLSHIT” on a daily basis.

how I feel right now

lamamama:

“But I am very poorly today and very stupid and hate everybody and everything.”

- Charles Darwin, in a letter dated October 1, 1861 [x]

(Source: dustandgasoline)

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself

Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.

—Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)

dictionaryofobscuresorrows:

n. a hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head—a crisp analysis, a cathartic dialogue, a devastating comeback—which serves as a kind of psychological batting cage where you can connect more deeply with people than in the small ball of everyday life, which is a frustratingly cautious game of change-up pitches, sacrifice bunts, and intentional walks.