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We’re emotional illiterates. We’ve been taught about anatomy and farming methods in Africa. We’ve learned mathematical formulas by heart. But we haven’t been taught a thing about our souls. We’re tremendously ignorant about what makes people tick.


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blastedheath:

Arthur Bowen Davies (American, 1862–1928), Château Langeais, Touraine, c.1924. Watercolor and gouache over graphite on paper, 9 1/2 x 12 3/8 in.
via lilacsinthedooryard
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bluetapes:

Voice by Andy WXx2009 on Flickr.
Many people die at twenty five and aren’t buried until they are seventy five.
— Benjamin Franklin 
You ask yourself: where are your dreams now? And you shake your head and say how swiftly the years fly by! And ask yourself again: what have you done with your best years, then? Where have you buried the best days of your life? Have you lived or not? Look, you tell yourself, look how cold the world is becoming. The years will pass and after them will come grim loneliness, and old age, quaking on its stick, and after them misery and despair. Your fantasy world will grow pale, your dreams will fade and die, falling away like the yellow leaves from the trees …
— Fyodor Dostoevsky, from White Nights 
I have seen the truth; I have seen and I know that people can be beautiful and happy without losing the power of living on earth. I will not and cannot believe that evil is the normal condition of mankind. And it is just this faith of mine that they laugh at. But how can I help believing it? I have seen the truth — it is not as though I had invented it with my mind, I have seen it, seen it, and the living image of it has filled my soul for ever.
—  Fyodor Dostoevsky
I understand. That’s the trouble. I understand. I’ll understand all the time. All day and all night. Especially all night. I’ll understand. You don’t have to worry about that.
— Ernest Hemingway, Winner Take Nothing
How far away the stars seem, and how far
Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!
— W. B. Yeats, from “Ephemera”
And, indeed, I will ask on my own account here, an idle question: which is better - cheap happiness or exalted sufferings? Well, which is better?
— Fyodor Dostoevsky
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burnedshoes:

© Dorothea Lange, 1956, US Highway 40, California
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visiodominum:

post-punker:

Aleister Crowley and Fernando Pessoa playing chess, Lisbon, Portugal, 1930

I’ve got this right above my bed, I feel blessed, glad to see this around here.



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