the view from Corinth

Last night I dreamed about you. What happened in detail I can hardly remember; all I know is that we kept merging into one another. I was you, you were me. Finally you somehow caught fire.

—Franz Kafka

(Source: likeafieldmouse, via burnedshoes)

"I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. That is my belief."

- Franz Kafka January of 1904 in a letter to Oskar Pollak

blastedheath:

Jean Pougny [Ivan Puni] (Russian, 1894-1956), Dining Room. Pencil, coloured pencil, ink and collage on paper, 31.5 x 21 cm.

blastedheath:

Jean Pougny [Ivan Puni] (Russian, 1894-1956), Dining Room. Pencil, coloured pencil, ink and collage on paper, 31.5 x 21 cm.

(via biancolatte)

Pawel Althamer, Path

Pawel Althamer, Path

Édouard Boubat: A Gentle Eye
Paris, France, 1962

Édouard Boubat: A Gentle Eye

Paris, France, 1962

(Source: liquidnight)