douglaswolk:New historical crush!!
Julie D’Aubigny was a 17th-century bisexual French opera singer and fencing master who killed or wounded at least ten men in life-or-death duels, performed nightly shows on the biggest and most highly-respected opera stage in the world, and once took the Holy Orders just so that she could sneak into a convent and bang a nun. If nothing in that sentence at least marginally interests you, I have no idea why you’re visiting this website. (via Badass of the Week: Julie D’Aubigny, La Maupin) (thank you, Rachel!)
Vidi, dilexi, comedi.
My plans for the weekend: going to this movie and trying to find a copy of Outside Over There, the most terrifying book of my childhood, in the Galway City Library.
On Valentines Day in 1884, Teddy Roosevelt’s wife and mother died within hours of each other. This was his diary entry for that Thursday.
via LettersOfNote by way of Gene Weingarten.
Gabriel von Max, Verblüht (Withered)
(Source: sisterwolf, via emmaonthursday)
Anatomy of a Tear-Jerker: Why does Adele's 'Someone Like You' make everyone cry? Science has found the formula -
Nerding out on music science this morning.
Unable to find by Laure-Anne Bosselaar | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor -
the right way to get out of bed,
we watch the shades cut down
into thin slices, waver a while,
shoulder to shoulder, then join, lazy.
Let’s leave this room now: it’s given us
all it can, let’s go—it’s Sunday—have
breakfast out, find a table for two: two eggs,
two toast, two coffees—black. No, nothing
plain: latté. We’ll read the paper,
the story of a man who rescued the only thing
he wanted from the rubble of his collapsed shack:
his cat—and be moved by it, and like that;
or play hangman on our paper napkins,
find easy words—no double-meanings: day,
night, rivers… then send the game to its fate,
crumpled on our empty plates.
Let’s step inside a church, sit through a wedding,
a christening, a mass for the dead, but leave
before the last amen. We’ll take the long way home,
make plans for summer—winter even.
Crush » Straw House, Straw Dog by Richard Siken (excerpt) -
I don’t really blame you for being dead but you can’t have your sweater back.
So, I said, now that we have our dead, what are we going to do with them?
There’s a black dog and there’s a white dog, depends on which you feed,
depends on which damn dog you live with.