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!)
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Vidi, dilexi, comedi.
(via nawasaka)
Sendak-style Avengers
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.
(via quigonejinn)
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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.
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Gabriel von Max, Verblüht (Withered)
(Source: sisterwolf, via emmaonthursday)
Nerding out on music science this morning.
Appoggiatura!
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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) -
4
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.