Elihu Vedder, ‘Memory’, 1870
(Source: silent-musings, via exorsism)
(Source: funnyhownobodyislaughing, via incinerhate)
(Source: lillil-lillil)
WRITING, TO A CHILD, like painting or sculpting, seems as sumptuous and completely natural as the sun. To him a work of art is a hermetic fullness glowing redly in the world of every day. In the gardens where he plays, the statues are particular horticultural specimens destined to feed…
(Source: langste, via mild-apprehensions)
(Source: disimba, via un-ortho-d0x)
“And yet, and yet… Denying temporal succession, denying the self, denying the astronomical universe, are apparent desperations and secret consolations. Our destiny (as contrasted with the hell of Swedenborg and the hell of Tibetan mythology) is not frightful by being unreal; it is frightful because it is irreversible and iron-clad. Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges.”
—Jorge Luis Borges, A New Refutation of Time, excerpt (via toadustyshelf)
(Source: joycejamie)
“Memory can change the shape of a room; it can change the color of a car. And memories can be distorted. They’re just an interpretation, they’re not a record, and they’re irrelevant if you have the facts.”
—Memento (via philphys)
