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Edmund Dulac: Ariel: Full fathom five thy father lies -  by The Public Domain Review

#edmud dulac #shakespeare #illustration

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from  Fortunio Liceti’s Monsters (1665)

#freaks #deformity #monsters #fortunio liceti #mythology

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a human carrying its own skin,

Juan Valverde de Amusco's Historia de la composicion del cuerpo humano, Rome, 1560.

#juan valverde de amusco #body #skin

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Human Cylinders by Mina Loy

The human cylinders Revolving in the enervating dusk That wraps each closer in the mystery Of singularity Among the litter of a sunless afternoon Having eaten without tasting Talked without communion And at least two of us Loved a very little Without seeking To know if our two miseries In the lucid rush-together of automatons Could form one opulent wellbeing Simplifications of men In the enervating dusk Your indistinctness Serves me the core of the kernel of you When in the frenzied reaching out of intellect to intellect Leaning brow to brow       communicative Over the abyss of the potential Concordance of respiration Shames Absence of corresponding between the verbal sensory And reciprocity   Of conception And expression Where each extrudes beyond the tangible One thin pale trail of speculation From among us we have sent out Into the enervating dusk One little whining beast Whose longing Is to slink back to antediluvian burrow And one elastic tentacle of intuition To quiver among the stars The impartiality of the absolute Routs      the polemic Or which of us Would not Receiving the holy-ghost Catch it      and caging Lose it Or in the problematic   Destroy the Universe With a solution

#mina loy #human cylinders

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Musee des Beaux Arts

W. H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong, The old Masters: how well they understood Its human position: how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting For the miraculous birth, there always must be Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating On a pond at the edge of the wood: They never forgot That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

#suffering #w. h. auden #breughel

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#augustus egg #The Travelling Companions

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13 For you created my inmost being;    you knit me together in my mother’s womb. 14 I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;    your works are wonderful,    I know that full well.

Psalm 139:13-14New International Version (NIV)

#making #growing #bible #crafts

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Image taken from page 308 of 'Der Albert Nyanza, das grosse Becken des Nil und die Erforschung der Nilquellen ... Aus dem Englischen von J. E. A. Martin ... Nebst 33 Illustrationen ... 1 Chromolithographie und 2 Karten' by The British Library Via Flickr:

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christ’s side wound and instruments of the Passion, Psalter, and Prayer Book of Bonne of Luxembourg. circa 1349  @ The Metropolitan Museum of Art. NY...

#side wound

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cennet

#cennet #paradise

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John Lewis Brown with wife and daughter by Giovanni Boldini

#giovanni boldini

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Walt Whitman- To You

Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of

   dreams,

I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your

   feet and hands,

Even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners,

   troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,

Your true soul and body appear before me,

They stand forth out of affairs, out of commerce, shops,

   work, farms, clothes, the house, buying, selling, eating,

   drinking, suffering, dying.

  Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you

   be my poem,

I whisper with my lips close to your ear,

I have loved many women and men, but I love none better

   than you.

  O I have been dilatory and dumb,

I should have made my way straight to you long ago,

I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted

   nothing but you.

   I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you,

None has understood you, but I understand you,

None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to

   yourself,

None but has found you imperfect, I only find no

   imperfection in you,

None but would subordinate you, I only am he who will

   never consent to subordinate you,

I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better,

   God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.

   Painters have painted their swarming groups and the centre-

   figure of all,

From the head of the centre-figure spreading a nimbus of

   gold-color’d light,

But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its

   nimbus of gold-color’d light,

From my hand from the brain of every man and woman it

   streams, effulgently flowing forever.

  O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!

You have not known what you are, you have slumber’d upon

   yourself all your life,

Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time,

What you have done returns already in mockeries,

(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in

   mockeries, what is their return?)

  The mockeries are not you,

Underneath them and within them I see you lurk,

I pursue you where none else has pursued you,

Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the

   accustom’d routine, if these conceal you from others or

   from yourself, they do not conceal you from me,

The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if

   these balk others they do not balk me,

The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed,

   premature death, all these I part aside.

  There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied

   in you,

There is no virtue, no beauty in man or woman, but as good

   is in you,

No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you,

No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits

   for you.

  As for me, I give nothing to any one except I give the like

   carefully to you,

I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than

   I sing the songs of the glory of you.

  Whoever you are! claim your own at an hazard!

These shows of the East and West are tame compared to you,

These immense meadows, these interminable rivers, you are

   immense and interminable as they,

These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of

   apparent dissolution, you are he or she who is master or

   mistress over them,

Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements,

   pain, passion, dissolution.

  The hopples fall from your ankles, you find an unfailing

   sufficiency,

Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest,

   whatever you are promulges itself,

Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided,

   nothing is scanted,

Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what

   you are picks its way.

#walt whitman #to you

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One should always be drunk. That’s the great thing, the only question. Not to feel the horrible burden of Time weighing on your shoulders and bowing you to the earth, you should be drunk without respite. Drunk with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you please. But get drunk.And if sometimes you should happen to awake, on the stairs of a palace, on the green grass of a ditch, in the dreary solitude of your own room, and find that your drunkenness is ebbing or has vanished, ask the wind and the wave, ask star, bird, or clock, ask everything that flies, everything that moans, everything that flows, everything that sings, everything that speaks, ask them the time; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, and the clock will all reply, “It is Time to get drunk! If you are not to be the martyred slaves of Time, be perpetually drunk! With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you please.”

#drunk #charles baudelaire #alcohol

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#Walter Richard Sickert #helen carte #The Acting Manager

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One should never tell anyone anything or give information or pass on stories or make people remember beings who have never existed or trodden the earth or traversed the world, or who, having done so, are now almost safe in uncertain, one-eyed oblivion. Telling is almost always done as a gift, even when the story contains and injects some poison, it is also a bond, a granting of trust, and rare is the trust or confidence that is not sooner or later betrayed, rare is the close bond that does not grow twisted or knotted and, in the end, become so tangled that a razor or knife is needed to cut it. How many of my confidences remain intact, of all those I have offered up, I, who have always laid such store by my own instinct and yet have still sometimes failed to listen to it, I, who have been ingenuous for far too long?”

Excerpt From: Marias, Javier. “Your Face Tomorrow 1”

#javier marías

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#the bury bible #bible

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#last trump #teeth