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The Omniscient Transcendentalist
“…I blasted my music with the windows down everywhere I went. Who cares? Nobody knows me here. I already lost the game. Why not have fun?…”

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Throwaway reddit user (extract).

”…I already lost the game.”

This really sticks out to me. Mostly because it’s mildly true. There isn’t anything left to lose.

softwaring:

Alpstein Mountains in the morning Alpglow, Switzerland;

Dominik Baer

Printemps de la vie; Printemps, Jeunesse de l’Anée (Detail), by André-Charles Voillemot (French 1823 - 1893)

historical-paintings:

Heinrich Vogeler, Springtime. Portrait of Martha Vogeler, 1897. German, 1872-1942. 

kendrasmiles4u:

Window Box by Colorado Sands on Flickr.

Eisenach,Germany @kendrasmiles4u

wasbella102:

Ann Hardy. Roses Done in Plein Aire

tuez-moi-ici:

by John Singer Sargent

fourpevensies:

the chronicles of narnia: the lion, the witch and the wardrobe
    ↳ chapter 2: what lucy found there

"Daughter of Eve from the far land of Spare Oom where eternal summer reigns around the bright city of War Drobe, how would it be if you came and had tea with me?"

sommartidsvarmod:

Portrait of the actress Marie-Anne de Chateauneuf, by Nicolas de Largillierre, 1712 (detail 2).

eighteenthcenturyfiction:

The whole picture: I cropped this image a little for the cover of the new special issue of the journal Eighteenth-Century Fiction: “The Senses of Humour/Les Sens de l’humour,” so I thought I should share the entire engraving here on Tumblr.

Read this special issue and other numbers of Eighteenth-Century Fiction online via institutional subscription at Project MUSE:
http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/eighteenth_century_fiction/toc/ecf.26.4.html

amare-habeo:

Josef Mánes (Czech, 1820 - 1871)

The Drowned, N/D

needsmoreresearch:

vivelareine:

I don’t know what these etchings of Maria Theresa pulling up Marie Antoinette in a well mean, but, here are two.

[credit: © The Trustees of the British Museum]

The dialogue from the first:

MT: “What are you doing, my daughter?  What despair?”

MA: “I was mad for the blood of the French.  Unable to quench my thirst, my despair sent me to the depths of this well.  Ah!  Cursed French, why did you stop me?”

“Dupre told Desmoulins of a girl in the rue Saint-Honore, who said to her friends, “I want to be guillotined; I don’t see why I shouldn’t be talked about as well as another.” For a long time the authorities refused to make a martyr of her. When everything else failed, she opened her window, and shouted at the top of her voice, Vive le Roi, Vive le Roi! This time the police could not refuse to arrest her. At her trial she denied indignantly that she had been drunk. “I was as sober as I am now,” she said, and started shouting again, Vive le roi! “Good-bye, my dear friends,” she said on the way to the scaffold; and just before the blade fell she turned her head towards the crowd and remarked, “Good-bye, rabble, good-bye!””

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An anecdote reported in J.M Thompson’s The French Revolution

Nothing about this is funny, of course.

The Terror wasn’t a funny thing.

I’m going to hell for giggling, truly

(via bunniesandbeheadings)
“Why not stake out a chunk of the world that is completely alien to you and go traveling?”

- Richard Powers, on writing. (via theparisreview)