(vía fuckyeahexistentialism)

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George Eliot, Daniel Deronda

(vía freecocaine)

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(vía citymod)

(vía kunissexual)

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vermillons:

Gustav Klimt, Death and Life, 1908, oil on canvas.

(vía stilestilinskis)

Archaeologists have not yet discovered any stage of human existence without art. Even in the half-light before the dawn of humanity we received this gift from Hands we did not manage to discern. Nor have we managed to ask: Why was this gift given to us and what are we to do with it?
And all those prophets who are predicting that art is disintegrating, that it has used up all its forms, that it is dying, are mistaken. We are the ones who shall die. And art will remain. The question is whether before we perish we shall understand all its aspects and all its ends.
Not all can be given names. Some of them go beyond words. Art opens even the chilled, darkened heart to high spiritual experience. Through the instrumentality of art we are sometimes sent—vaguely, briefly—insights which logical processes of thought cannot attain.
Like the tiny mirror of the fairy tale: you look into it and see—not yourself—but for one fleeting moment the Unattainable to which you cannot leap or fly. And the heart aches…

Having perfected our disguise, we spend our lives searching for someone we don’t fool.

I don’t want to get to the end of my life and find that I have just lived the length of it. I want to have lived the width of it as well.

What I value the most is the perishable. I love the way it exhausts and refills me. Yes; I love only what vanishes: shaky words, trembling answers, not knowing how to say goodbye, not knowing how to stay inside my head […]