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KeepThefaith
"Quand je cherche la base de l'existence, je pense qu'elle n'existe pas.
Quand je vois le sommet de la non-existence, je pense qu'elle existe."

Mom’s hobbies include reading my conversations with people on WhatsApp.

honeymorning

(Source: jolinxo)

شط اب يور ماوس اوباما

Ancient Egyptian proverb

Translation: “the stars of the night sky dance at the sight of you”

(via ahyasidi)

(Source: longlostpoet)

labellefilleart:

Self Portrait, Marguerite Burnat-Provins 

labellefilleart:

Self Portrait, Marguerite Burnat-Provins 

(Source: oriental-sunrise)

ianoshea:

College kids have 2 styles: overdressed or homeless person.

I’m the homeless.

magnacarterholygrail:

my personal style is called “i don’t have the money for my preferred aesthetic”

femme-de-lettres:

Large (Wikimedia)
Because one can never see too many paintings of banisters, here’s another picture with stairs: Eastman Johnson’s 1873 painting Not at Home.
I’m reminded of that frequent telephone gag: “‘Excuse me, is Mrs. Smythe there?’ ‘Just a moment please.’ ‘Very well.’ ‘…My apologies—she says she isn’t at home.’”
Of course, then as now the polite way of turning away an unwanted visitor was often to feign absence.
In an age of household servants and card receivers in the front hall, however, in order to pretend to be out one had better retreat to the private spaces of the house; it would be perfectly standard for the visitor to be permitted in (or at least, to have the door opened to them) so they could leave their calling card in an elaborate dish or stand left out for that purpose.
In this case, according to the Brooklyn Museum, “it is [Johnson’s] wife, Elizabeth, whom we see climbing the stairs leading to more private areas of their residence on Manhattan’s West Fifty-fifth Street.”
She leans forward and lifts her elegantly tiered skirts in her hurry to vacate the public portions of the house.
Visible through the open portière is an elegant little drawing room, with paintings, a statuette, and a crowded sideboard. 
Even this part of the house is not without its homey touches, however—just beside the door sits a tiny stroller, a charming contrast to the massive grandfather clock next to it.

femme-de-lettres:

Large (Wikimedia)

Because one can never see too many paintings of banisters, here’s another picture with stairs: Eastman Johnson’s 1873 painting Not at Home.

I’m reminded of that frequent telephone gag: “‘Excuse me, is Mrs. Smythe there?’ ‘Just a moment please.’ ‘Very well.’ ‘…My apologies—she says she isn’t at home.’”

Of course, then as now the polite way of turning away an unwanted visitor was often to feign absence.

In an age of household servants and card receivers in the front hall, however, in order to pretend to be out one had better retreat to the private spaces of the house; it would be perfectly standard for the visitor to be permitted in (or at least, to have the door opened to them) so they could leave their calling card in an elaborate dish or stand left out for that purpose.

In this case, according to the Brooklyn Museum, “it is [Johnson’s] wife, Elizabeth, whom we see climbing the stairs leading to more private areas of their residence on Manhattan’s West Fifty-fifth Street.”

She leans forward and lifts her elegantly tiered skirts in her hurry to vacate the public portions of the house.

Visible through the open portière is an elegant little drawing room, with paintings, a statuette, and a crowded sideboard.

Even this part of the house is not without its homey touches, however—just beside the door sits a tiny stroller, a charming contrast to the massive grandfather clock next to it.

renaissance-art:

Saint Barbara (detail) c. 16th century

renaissance-art:

Saint Barbara (detail) c. 16th century

chebmoha:

No kidding

chebmoha:

No kidding

(Source: fvsky)

officialwhitegirls:

when you correct the teacher

image

I love the night passionately. I love it as I love my country, or my mistress, with an instinctive, deep, and unshakeable love. I love it with all my senses: I love to see it, I love to breathe it in, I love to open my ears to its silence, I love my whole body to be caressed by its blackness.

Guy de Maupassant  (via mirroir)

(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction)