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#English Romanticism
lionofchaeronea · 2 months
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The Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins, William Blake, ca. 1799-1800
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burningvelvet · 4 months
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being a romantic era poet: a quick how-to guide
walk around in nature contemplating Things. start hiking, swimming, sailing, rowing, shooting, riding, etc. for inspiration
be obsessed with the french revolution and related enlightenment-era figures like rousseau, voltaire, mary wollstonecraft, and madame de staël. be more disappointed by napoleon bonaparte than you are by your own father. 
speaking of fathers, your parents and most of your other relatives are all either dying or dead or emotionally abusive. if you have any siblings (full, half, step, or adopted) who DIDN'T die tragically already, then you may choose to be close to them. you also may end up being much TOO close to them. various circumstances may also ban you from seeing them. 
be at least slightly touched by madness and/or some other severe illness(es) including but not limited to: consumption, horrors, syphilis, deformities, lameness, terrors, piles, boils, pox, allergies, coughing, sleep abnormalities, gonorrhea, etc. — for which you must take frequent bed rest and copious amounts of Laudanum (opium derivation)
consider foregoing meat and adopting a vegetable diet instead to purify the spirits. you may also abstain from alcohol for the same reasons. alternatively, you may attempt the veggie diet, end up rejecting it, and becoming a rampant alcoholic instead. in romanticism there is no healthy medium between abstinence and excess.
reject, or at least heavily criticize, christianity. refuse to get married in a church and consider becoming a fervent champion of atheism. alternatively, you may embrace catholicism, but only on an aesthetic basis. eastern religions and minority religions are also acceptable, only because they piss off the christians. 
if you’re not a self-hating member of the aristocracy and instead have to work for a living, do something that allows you to benefit society, be creative, and/or contemplate life. viable options include, but are not limited to: apothecarist, doctor, teacher, preacher, lawyer, farmer, printmaker, publisher, editor. there is also the possibility of earning a few coins from your art. if you were cursed to be born a She, no worries. we believe in equality. you may choose from these occupations: wife, nanny, housekeeper, spinster, amanuensis (copy writer for a man), lady’s companion, divorced wife, singer/actress/escort, widow, regular escort, tutor, or housewife. 
speaking of sexist institutions, try rejecting marriage entirely. Declare your eternal devotion to your lover by having sex with them on your mother’s grave instead.
if you do get married — elope, and only let it be for necessary financial reasons, or to try and save a teenage girl from her controlling family, or out of true love with someone you view as your intellectual equal, or because your life is so racked with scandals and debt that you can only clear your name by matrimony to a wealthy religious woman as your last resort before fleeing the country.
After marriage, quickly assert your belief in the powers of free love and bisexuality by taking extramarital lovers and suggesting your spouse follow suit. If they cannot keep up with your intellectual escapades then consider leaving them. Later on, propose a platonic friendship with them following the separation, or beg them for reconciliation.
If your marriage is happy, try moving in with another bohemian couple to shake things up. Alternatively, you may die before the wedding for dramatic effect.
If you beget children (whether in or out of marriage, makes no matter), do society a favor by choosing to raise them with your beliefs. Consider adopting orphan children, or even non-orphan children. If their parents are poor enough they probably won’t mind. Try kidnapp— I mean adopting — children off the side of the road if you can. 
DIE but do it creatively. ideally young. ideas: prophecy your own death, lead an army into war and then die right before your first battle and on your deathbed curse everyone and demand to see a witch, write a will leaving money to your mistresses or some random young man you have an unrequited romantic obsession with, carry a copy of your dead friend's poetry and read it right before you drown so that your washed up corpse can only be identified by his book in your pocket, die while staring at your lover's shriveled up heart that you keep wrapped up in a copy of his own poetry and then be buried with it, die of the poet's illness (consumption) while your artist friend draws you and then be buried with your lover's writing, get mysteriously poisoned (by yourself) after a series of scandals and accidents and then have your family announce that you were killed by god, die from romanticizing poverty or receiving bad reviews from literary critics, die from walking or horseback riding in the cold and the rain while poeticizing, etc.
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empirearchives · 2 months
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“I find fault, and quarrel with Napoleon, as a lover does with the trifling faults of his mistress, from excessive liking, which tempts me to desire that he had been all faultless; and, like the lover, I return with renewed fondness after each quarrel.”
— Lord Byron
Source: Byron, Napoleon, J. C. Hobhouse, and the Hundred Days, By Peter Cochran (x)
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goetiae · 8 months
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Satan as the Fallen Angel
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Painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence (1769-1830) in red, white, and black chalk, this creation of phenomenal artistic mastery is a part of a larger group of art pieces. The full collection consists of six different paintings depicting scenes and characters from Milton's Paradise Lost. One is currently at the Royal Academy of Arts, one at Louvre, one in Private Collection, and two are lost.
Satan in this depiction stands in his full humanised glory - imagery typical of the late 18th century Romanticism when the fallen angel lost his beastly, animalistic appearance in art. His features here remind one more of David or Apollo Belvedere in his majestic, heavenly beauty caught right before the fall.
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abracazabka · 8 months
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going thru old text books and LMAO
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can you guess who my favorite poet was
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pagansphinx · 3 months
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Joseph M. W. Turner (British\English, 1775-1851) • Rain, Steam and Speed - the Great Western Railway • 1844
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fangledeities · 6 months
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Bettie Page
Christianae ad Leones (Christians to the Lions), (detail), 1888. Herbert Gustave Schmalz (a.k.a. Herbert Carmichael), (English, 1856-1935).
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janeaustenluvr13 · 7 months
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Taylor Swift WAS right!!!! I DO want auroras and sad prose!!! I DO want to watch wisteria grow right over my bare feet!!! those Windermere peaks DO look like a perfect place to cry!!! I DO want to set off with my muse to where all the poets went to die!!! fuck these hunters with cell phones (I'm one)
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howamidrivinginlimbo · 4 months
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The graves of John Keats, his friend Joseph Severn and Percy Bysshe Shelley, in the Non-Catholic Cemetery (in Testaccio, Rome, Italy)
Keats went to Italy (with Severn) for his health in 1820, but died a year later of tuberculosis at the age of 25. Shelley drowned in the Gulf of La Spezia in 1822, which was nicknamed the Gulf of Poets thereafter.
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Why kill two birds with one stone when you can kill two albatrosses with the same arrow haha ahahaaa ahaa my sense of humor is diminishing
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kecobe · 10 months
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Don Juan George Gordon Byron, Baron Byron (British; 1788–1824) Autograph manuscript, unsigned First draft of Cantos I–V  (Venice and Ravenna, July 3, 1818–November 30, 1819 and October 16–November 27, 1820 The Morgan Library & Museum, New York
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lionofchaeronea · 2 months
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The Weald of Kent, Samuel Palmer, 1833-34
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burningvelvet · 1 year
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oval still life portraits of percy shelley, mary shelley, and lord byron <3
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empirearchives · 11 months
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Lord Byron was so fiercely loyal to Napoleon throughout his whole life, that the few times he ever criticized or reproached him is described by Dr. Adil M. Jamil as being something like “a quarrel between two devoted lovers.”
Napoleon was Lord Byron’s life-long idol and muse. “He saw himself in Napoleon, and Napoleon in him.”
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byronicist · 11 months
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"And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, / But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; / And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, / And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale, / With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail: / And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, / The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown."
George Gordon Byron, The Destruction of Sennacherib (1815)
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darkacadwmia · 2 years
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