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theparisreview:

Henri Matisse’s illustrations for Baudelaire’s poetry collection, Les Fleurs du Mal. (via)

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(Source: huldrapress, via 18thteen)

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“[A writer] is like a surfer—he bides his time, waits for the perfect wave on which to ride in.” —E. B. White

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0 notes The Broads of Broadway (at The Broadway Bar & Grill)

The Broads of Broadway (at The Broadway Bar & Grill)

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(Source: theslickavenue, via m-adr)

49 notes pwelverumandsun:

(photo of poet Jim Harrison by Alec Soth)
Mother Night
When you wake at three AM you don’t think of your age or sex and rarely your name  or the plot of your life which has never  broken itself down into logical pieces. At three AM you have the gift of incomprehension  wherein the galaxies make more sense than your job or the government. Jesus at the well  with Mary Magdalene is much more vivid  than your car. You can clearly see the bear climb to heaven on a golden rope in the children’s  story no one ever wrote. Your childhood horse named June still stomps the ground for an apple. What is morning and what if it doesn’t arrive? One morning Mother dropped an egg and asked  me if God was the same species as we are? Smear of light at five AM. Sound of Webber’s  sheep flock and sandhill cranes across the road,  burble of irrigation ditch beneath my window. She said, “Only lunatics save newspapers  and magazines,” fried me two eggs, then said,  “If you want to understand mortality look at birds.” Blue moon, two full moons this month,  which I conclude are two full moons. In what  direction do the dead fly off the earth?  Rising sun. A thousand blackbirds pronounce day.
(in the book Saving Daylight from Copper Canyon Press)

pwelverumandsun:

(photo of poet Jim Harrison by Alec Soth)

Mother Night

When you wake at three AM you don’t think
of your age or sex and rarely your name
or the plot of your life which has never
broken itself down into logical pieces.
At three AM you have the gift of incomprehension
wherein the galaxies make more sense
than your job or the government. Jesus at the well
with Mary Magdalene is much more vivid
than your car. You can clearly see the bear
climb to heaven on a golden rope in the children’s
story no one ever wrote. Your childhood horse
named June still stomps the ground for an apple.
What is morning and what if it doesn’t arrive?
One morning Mother dropped an egg and asked
me if God was the same species as we are?
Smear of light at five AM. Sound of Webber’s
sheep flock and sandhill cranes across the road,
burble of irrigation ditch beneath my window.
She said, “Only lunatics save newspapers
and magazines,” fried me two eggs, then said,
“If you want to understand mortality look at birds.”
Blue moon, two full moons this month,
which I conclude are two full moons. In what
direction do the dead fly off the earth?
Rising sun. A thousand blackbirds pronounce day.

(in the book Saving Daylight from Copper Canyon Press)

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