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Magdalene Grieving (1605) by Caravaggio.

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archive moodboard: order for @opheliadae | want one?

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rainy days in the city

(via)

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Rainer Maria Rilke, "The Prodigal Son." The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke (translated by Stephen Mitchell)

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Clarice Lispector, from “A Breath of Life”, published posthumously in Brazil in the late 1970s

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I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

-Henry David Thoreau

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Writers remember everything...especially the hurts. Strip a writer to the buff, point to the scars, and he'll tell you the story of each small one. From the big ones you get novels— misery by stephen king.

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Virgil Reading From Aeneid (painting), 1864.

by Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres.

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Trista Mateer, “For the One Who Loved My Hands More than Anything Else.” The Dogs I Have Kissed

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Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

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when emily brontë said on her diary entries “I have a good many books on hands but I am sorry to say that, as usual, I make small progress with any” i felt that

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constantly torn between wanting to live in the city and go to museums and libraries etc. and wanting to run away to the countryside and shut myself in a big old house surrounded by nature

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Alejandro Zambra, Ways of Going Home (translated by Megan McDowell)