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Our Blushing Brides (1930)

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Tennessee Williams, from "The Glass Menagerie," originally published in 1944

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What did St. John Rivers think of this earthly angel?

Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

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“‘You are a strange child, Miss Jane,’ she said, as she looked down at me; 'a little roving, solitary thing.’”

— Charlotte Brontë, excerpt from Jane Eyre

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“Or, perhaps, more than all these, something in her own unique mind, had roused her powers within her. They woke, they kindled: first, they glowed in the bright tint of her cheek, which till this hour I had never seen but pale and bloodless; then they shone in the liquid lustre of her eyes, which had suddenly acquired a beauty more singular than that of Miss Temple's–a beauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radiance. Then her soul sat on her lips, and language flowed, from what source I cannot tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart large enough, vigorous enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure, full, fervid eloquence? Such was the characteristic of Helen’s discourse on that, to me, memorable evening; her spirit seemed hastening to live within a very brief span as much as many live during a protracted existence.”

— Charlotte Brontë, excerpt from Jane Eyre

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“Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre? Don’t trouble yourself to answer–I see you laugh rarely; but you can laugh very merrily: believe me, you are not naturally austere, any more than I am naturally vicious. The Lowood constraint still clings to you somewhat; controlling your features, muffling your voice, and restricting your limbs; and you fear in the presence of a man and a brother–or father, or master, or what you will–to smile too gaily, speak too freely, or move too quickly: but, in time, I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossible to be conventional with you; and then your looks and movements will have more vivacity and variety than they dare offer now. I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high.”

— Charlotte Brontë, excerpt from Jane Eyre

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“‘Mademoiselle is a fairy,’ he said, whispering mysteriously.”

— Charlotte Brontë, excerpt from Jane Eyre

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“A vision, as it seemed to me, had risen at his side. There appeared, within three feet of him, a form clad in pure white–a youthful, graceful form: full, yet fine in contour; and when, after bending to caress Carlo, it lifted up its head, and threw back a long veil, there bloomed under his glance a face of perfect beauty. Perfect beauty is a strong expression; but I do not retrace or qualify it: as sweet features as ever the temperate clime of Albion moulded; as pure hues of rose and lily as ever her humid gales and vapoury skies generated and screened, justified, in this instance, the term. No charm was wanting, no defect was perceptible; the young girl had regular and delicate lineaments; eyes shaped and coloured as we see them in lovely pictures, large, and dark, and full; the long and shadowy eyelash which encircles a fine eye with so soft a fascination; the pencilled brow which gives such clearness; the white smooth forehead, which adds such repose to the livelier beauties of tint and ray; the cheek oval, fresh, and smooth; the lips, fresh too, ruddy, healthy, sweetly formed; the even and gleaming teeth without flaw; the small dimpled chin; the ornament of rich, plenteous tresses–all advantages, in short, which, combined, realise the ideal of beauty, were fully hers. I wondered, as I looked at this fair creature: I admired her with my whole heart.”

— Charlotte Brontë, excerpt from Jane Eyre

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symptom journal quilt by Nicole Jones Studio

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V/H/S (2012)

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Anna Karina in Vivre sa vie (1962)

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Nicole Dollanganger Gold Satin Dreamer x Marissa Nadler Bird on Your Grave

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no cuz she was insane for this

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Several piles, dumps, loads, heaps, of plums, blue plums, covered with frost...Despite the white frost, the blue of the plums was sunny and incandescent. Make no mistake about it, it wasn’t the blue of any sky, it was the blue of small ripe plums. And their blue is what I send you in your cell tonight as I write in the dark.

John Berger, From A to X: A Story in Letters

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1985, New York, funeral home’s delivery boy Photo: Frank Horvat

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on Simon & Garfunkel - Bridge over Troubled Water (Restored - from The Concert in Central Park)

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Franz Kafka, Letters To Milena