If you haven't seen this yet - I've had it sent to me by two dear people who apparently know my taste - it's incredible: a Paris apartment sealed up just before WW2 and opened just recently. The woman paid the rent until she died and never returned, and when they opened it up, they found a painting of her grandmother, actress-muse-mistress to Giovanni Boldini.
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I love the internet.
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This woman's photographs are incredible.
My favorite thing about this shot is the pinky-red blood trail behind her, and the way the color is echoed in the gradation of her lips.
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I love this post about the sound in tango music that's named after a cicada - a chicharra. I've heard it, but I'd never known what it was.
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Ben Folds choosing pianos in his studio.
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An absurdly detailed map of North American dialects. For the record, I say "pin" and "pen" differently, despite being born in Georgia and living for the past decade and a half in Tucson.
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A fascinating article in Smithsonian magazine about how artists in Egypt are using graffiti as a form of protest against the government.
A pawn uprising.
It's an excerpt from Neruda translated into Arabic: "You can step on the flowers but you can never delay the Spring."
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Heartbreakingly beautiful photography by a teenage trainhopper. They published a book of his photos, but he's working as a mechanic now and doesn't think of himself as a photographer.
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It's the light and shadow under her shoulder, and her vulnerability.
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I am suffering quite heavily from this at the moment. I'm partway through To Have and Have Another (making drinks as I go); I'm two chapters in to editing Colin's next novel; I have started but not finished The Wyrd Sisters and Jitterbug Perfume; Colin gave me The Paris Wife for Mother's Day, which I have read before and loved and want to read again, especially after To Have; seeing Gastby made me want to read my copy of Jazz Age Stories, which was returned to me by a student the day after I remembered owning it (but not that I'd lent it out); I downloaded American Gods to my phone and haven't opened it; and the trailer for Ender's Game makes me itch to read it again, for probably the tenth time.
Of the paper copies, only Ender's Game is actually in the bookshelf - the rest are stacked around the house, mostly in the nightstand.
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And speaking of Fitzgerald, here's the villa where he supposedly wrote Tender is the Night:
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More to come tomorrow, I think. I've been saving up awhile (as you might have guessed from the dearth of posts lately).
“Philosophers have argued for centuries about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, but materialists have known all along that it depends on whether they are jitterbugging or dancing cheek to cheek.”
ReplyDelete― Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume
Doesn't it?
Either way, one still has to wear their dancing shoes.
Now where did I put mine?