Alpstein Mountains in the morning Alpglow, Switzerland;
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.
Printemps de la vie; Printemps, Jeunesse de l’Anée (Detail), by André-Charles Voillemot (French 1823 - 1893)
Heinrich Vogeler, Springtime. Portrait of Martha Vogeler, 1897. German, 1872-1942.
Ann Hardy. Roses Done in Plein Aire
by John Singer Sargent
Portrait of the actress Marie-Anne de Chateauneuf, by Nicolas de Largillierre, 1712 (detail 2).
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:
Josef Mánes (Czech, 1820 - 1871)
The Drowned, N/D
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?”
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)