The Ocean | Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1825

Joaquin Sorolla, Seascape, 1904

 The Ocean has its silent caves,
Deep, quiet, and alone;
Though there be fury on the waves,
Beneath them there is none.

The awful spirits of the deep
Hold their communion there;
And there are those for whom we weep,
The young, the bright, the fair.

Calmly the wearied seamen rest
Beneath their own blue sea.
The ocean solitudes are blest,
For there is purity.

The earth has guilt, the earth has care,
Unquiet are its graves;
But peaceful sleep is ever there,
Beneath the dark blue waves.

Nathaniel Hawthorne,  The Ocean, 1825

*
Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote “The Ocean” in 1825 at the age of 21. His father, 
a sea captain, died at sea when Nathaniel was only 4 years old.


Also:

Book//mark - Monsieur De Phocas | Jean Lorrain, 1901

Jean Lorrain, 1855-1906                                                    Jean Lorrain, Monsieur De Phocas, 1901


“The madness of the eyes is the lure of the abyss. Sirens lurk in the dark depths of the pupils
 as they lurk at the bottom of the sea, that I know for sure - but I have never encountered 
them, and I am searching still for the profound and plaintive gazes in whose depths 
I might be able, like Hamlet redeemed, to drown the Ophelia of my desire.”


“Masks! I see them everywhere. That dreadful vision of the other night - the deserted town
 with its masked corpses in every doorway; that nightmare product of morphine and ether -
 has taken up residence within me. I see masks in the street, I see them on stage in the theatre,
 I find yet more of them in the boxes. They are on the balcony and in the orchestra-pit. 
Everywhere I go I am surrounded by masks. The attendants to whom I give my overcoat 
are masked; masks crowd around me in the foyer as everyone leaves, and the coachman 
who drives me home has the same cardboard grimace fixed upon his face!

It is truly too much to bear: to feel that one is alone and at the mercy of all those enigmatic 
and deceptive faces, alone amid all the mocking laughs and the threats embodied in those 
masks. I have tried to persuade myself that I am dreaming, and that I am the victim of a 
hallucination, but all the powdered and painted faces of women, all the rouged lips and 
kohl-blackened eyelids... all of that has created around me an atmosphere of trance and
 mortal agony. Cosmetics: there is the root cause of my illness!

But I am happy, now, when there are only masks! Sometimes, I detect the cadavers 
beneath, and remember that beneath the masks there is a host of spectres.”

“Ingratitude' is the name which avatars of 
Narcissus give to the success of others.”

“...the presence of others has become even more intolerable to me, their conversation most 
of all. Oh, how it all annoys and exasperates me: their attitudes, their manners, their whole 
way of being! The people of my world, all my unhappy peers, have come to irritate, oppress 
and sadden me with their noisy and empty chatter, their monstrous and boundless vanity,
their even more monstrous egotism, their club gossip... the endless repetition of opinions 
already formed and judgments already made; the automatic vomiting forth of articles read 
in those morning papers which are the recognised outlet of the hopeless wilderness of their 
ideas; the eternal daily meal of overfamiliar cliches concerning racing stables and the stalls 
of fillies of the human variety... the hutches of the 'petites femmes' - another worn out phrase
 in the dirty usury of shapeless expression!

Oh my contemporaries, my dear contemporaries...

Their idiotic self-satisfaction; their fat and full-blown self-sufficiency: the stupid display of
 their good fortune; the clink of fifty- and a hundred-franc coins forever sounding out their 
financial prowess, according their own reckoning; their hen-like clucking and their pig-like
 grunting, as they pronounce the names of certain women; the obesity of their minds, the 
obscenity of their eyes, and the toneless-ness of their laughter! They are, in truth, handsome 
puppets of amour, with all the exhausted despondency of their gestures and the slackness 
of their chic...

Chic! A hideous word, which fits their manner like a new glove: as dejected as 
undertakers' mutes, as full-blown as Falstaff...

Oh my contemporaries: the ceusses of my circle, to put it in their own ignoble argot. They
 have all welcomed the moneylenders into their homes, and have been recruited as their 
clients, and they have likewise played host to the fat journalists who milk their
 conversations for the society columns. How I hate them; how I execrate them; 
how I would love to devour them liver and lights - and how well I understand the 
Anarchists and their bombs!”


“There is nothing to be found in human eyes, and that is their terrifying and dolorous 
enigma, their abominable and delusive charm. There is nothing but that which we put 
there ourselves. That is why honest gazes are only to be found in portraits.

The faded and weary eyes of martyrs, expressions tortured by ecstasy, imploring and 
suffering eyes, some resigned, others desperate... the gazes of saints, mendicants and
 princesses in exile, with pardoning smiles... the gazes of the possessed, the chosen and 
the hysterical... and sometimes of little girls, the eyes of Ophelia and Canidia, the eyes of 
virgins and witches... as you live in the museums, what eternal life, dolorous and intense, 
shines out of you! Like precious stones enshrined between the painted eyelids of 
masterpieces, you disturb us across time and across space, receivers of the
 dream which created you!

You have souls, but they are those of the artists who wished you into being, and I am 
delivered to despair and mortification because I have drunk the draught of poison 
congealed in the irises of your eyes.

The eyes of portraits ought to be plucked out.”


“8 April 1891
The obscenity of nostrils and mouths; the ignominious cupidity of smiles and women 
encountered in the street; the shifty baseness on every side, as of hyenas and wild beasts 
ready to bite: tradesmen in their shops and strollers on their pavements. How long must
 I suffer this? I have suffered it before, as a child, when, descending by chance to the 
servant's quarters, I overheard in astonishment their vile gossip, tearing up my own 
kind with their lovely teeth.

This hostility to the entire race, this muted detestation of lynxes in human form, I must 
have rediscovered it later while at school. I had a repugnance and horror for all base 
instincts, but am I not myself instinctively violent and lewd, murderous and sensual? 
Am I any different, in essence, from the members of the riotous and murderous mob of a
 hundred years ago, who hurled the town sergeants into the Seine and cried, 'String up 
the aristos!' just as they shout 'Down with the army!' or 'Death to the Jews!”

“The beauty of the twentieth century is the charm of the hospital, the grace of the 
cemetery, of consumption and emaciation. I admit that I have submitted to it 
all; worse, I have loved with all my heart.”

“To dream! Such dreams certainly make life more worth living...
 and only dreams can do that for me.”

    Jean Lorrain, Monsieur De Phocas, 1901

   Jean Lorrain, Monsieur De Phocas, 1908


Kids | Photos by David Alan Harvey, 1975-1998

David Alan Harvey, A boy playing near Lake Atitlán, in the highlands of Sierra Madre, 
Guatemala, 1975
David Alan Harvey, Cuba, 1998
David Alan Harvey, Art class, San Francisco, USA, 1978
David Alan Harvey, Honduras, 1992
David Alan Harvey, Cuba, 1998
David Alan Harvey, Ipanema beach, Rio de Janeiro
 David Alan Harvey, Chile, 1987

The tree | Patricia Highsmith, 1960

Kasamatsu Shiro, In the woods, 1955

 “He ran into a tree, hurting his shoulder and the right side of his head. It was vaguely 
familiar to him, the action of running into a tree. Where? When? He went slowly back to
 the tree and put his hand on its rough, immovable trunk, confident that the tree would
 tell him an important piece of wisdom, or a secret. He felt it, but he could not find words 
for it: it had something to do with identity. The tree knew who he was really, and he had
 been destined to bump into it. The tree had a further message. It told him to be calm and 
quiet and to stay with Annabelle.
‘But you don’t know how difficult it is to be quiet,’ David said. ‘It’s very easy for you—’.”

Patricia Highsmith, This Sweet Sickness, 1960

How it feels to fly | Harriet Quimby (1875-1912) | America's First Lady of the Air

 Harriet Quimby in the Moisant monoplane, 1911

"Everyone asks me 'how it feels to fly.' It feels like riding in a high powered automobile, minus
 bumping over the rough roads, continually signaling to clear the way and keeping a watchful 
on the speedometer to see that you do not exceed the speed limit and provoke the wrath of
 the bicycle policeman or the covetous constable."

"The speed with which an aviator flies and the strong currents created by the rapidly 
revolving propeller directly in front of the diver compel the latter to be warmly clad. There 
must be no flapping ends to catch in the multitudinous wires surrounding the driver's seat. 
The feet and legs must be free, so that one can readily manipulate the steering apparatus..."

 Harriet Quimby in the cockpit of her plane in the USA, 1911

"The men flyers have given out the impression that aeroplaning is very perilous work, 
something that an ordinary mortal should not dream of attempting. But when I saw how
 easily the man flyers manipulated their machines I said I could fly."

"I was annoyed from the start by the attitude of doubt on the part of the spectators that I 
would never really make the flight. They knew I had never used the machine before, and
 probably thought I would find some excuse at the last moment to back out of the flight. 
This attitude made me more determined than ever to succeed."

 Harriet Quimby

Harriet Quimby in front of the Bleriot when she became the first woman to fly across the English Channel.
Harriet Quimby, 1912

"If a woman wants to fly, first of all she must, of course, abandon skirts and don a 
knickerbockers uniform… There must be no flapping ends to catch in the 
multitudinous wires surrouding the driver’s seat." 

Harriet Quimby


* Quimby was also known for flying in her purple satin flying suit.


Harriet Quimby (1875 – 1912) was an American pioneering aviator, journalist, and film screenwriter.

On April 16, 1912 Harriet Quimby flew from Dover to Équiphen-Plage (Pas-de-Calais), making 
her the first woman to fly an aircraft across the English channel. This gained her world-wide
 recognition.

There is little know about the early life from Harriet; we don't even know for sure when 
she was born. It is assumed she was born on May 1, 1875 in Coldwater, Michigan (USA). 
We do know however that by 1902, she and her family were living in California. In the
 same year, she became a writer for the journal Dramatic Review. A year later, Harriet 
moved to New York City and started working for Leslie's Weekly as a drama critic.

Harriet later became interested in aviation. She started classes at the Moisant School of 
Aviation at Hempstaed (Long Island). On August 1, 1911, Harriet became the first woman
 to qualify for a license from the Aero Club of America (the U.S. branch of the Fédération
 Aéronautique International). This made her the second licensed woman pilot in the world 
(first licensed woman: baroness de la Roche). On April 16, 1912, Harriet flew from Dover 
to the continent, making her the first woman to do so. Unfortunately, on July 1 of the same 
year, Harriet lost control when flying her Blériot over Dorchester Bay. Both she and her 
passenger were killed in this accident. Eventhough Harriet died young, she still influenced 
the role of women in aviation.

Flick Review < Ladies in retirement | Charles Vidor, 1941



Louisa – “Isn’t it funny Ellen. You can’t see the wind, you can’t touch it. But it’s there.”
Ellen – “I think you’d better have this around you dear. (She puts a wrap around 
Louisa’s shoulders) it’s getting quite chilly.”
Emily “Listen, what’s that?”
Ellen- “those are the priory bells from over the marshes”
Emily- “oh, shan’t like that.”
Louisa leans over and tells Bates that Emily hates bells.
Emily adds, “especially church bells. Ding dong ding dong ding dong”
Louisa- “Aren’t the marshes pretty?”
Emily- “the grass is too long and untidy. If I had a knife and a bit of string I’d cut it and 
tie it up in bundles.”
Bates looks horrified Louisa asks Bates, “Are there any sheep here in the marshes?”
“Yes Miss”
Louisa “I think sheep are so clever to chew their cud the way they do. It’s fairly difficult. I’ve tried.”
Bates-“you oughta be a sailor Miss, they’re always chewing tobacco.”
Louisa- “The man I was to marry was a sailor. He gave me this.(She shows him her periscope)
 it’s all I have to remember him by. He was wrecked at sea. They were all drowned.
(a dreamy smile washes over her)
Bates-“must have been a bit of sadness for you Miss.”
Louisa –“Oh no, I’ve quite forgotten what he looked like.”
Emily–“I saw a drowned man once. They took him out of the Thames. He was green.”
Louisa wide eyed like a little girl –“Frogs. There must be lots of frogs. We used to have such
 fun with them at home. We used to put them on the dining room table, and make them
 jump in the marmalade pot.”


Louisa Creed: “I hate the dark. It frightens me.”
Sister Theresa: “It shouldn’t, my dear. Don’t you believe we’re watched over?”
Louisa Creed: “Oh yes. But I’m never quite sure who’s watching us.”


Ellen Creed: “It takes a lot of courage to kill for the first time, Albert. Once you’ve sold 
your soul to the devil, murder is so much easier the second time. Much easier.”

Edith Barrett, Ida Lupino, Elsa Lanchester, 1941 


Ellen Creed: “Hell is like the kingdom of Heaven. It’s within.”


 Ladies in retirement, 1941
Director: Charles Vidor
Writers: Garrett Fort, Reginald Denham, Edward Percy ( play )
Cinematography: George Barnes
Stars: Ida Lupino, Louis Hayward, Evelyn Keyes

Ida Lupino on the set of Ladies in Retirement (1941)

“Crime drama that’s based on the play by Reginald Denham and Edward Percy–which i
n turn was based upon the true story from 1886. It’s smartly and tautly co-written by 
Denham and Garrett Fort, while the ensemble cast all give striking performances … 
The 23-year-old Lupino played the 40-year-old sinister Ellen to ice cold perfection,
 with no small help from her make-up."

Film critic Dennis Schwartz 

Also:

Images | Bert Meyers, 1981

Louise Bourgeois, Hands, 2002-2003
State III of VIII

 Hands, twin sisters
to whom everyone's
a wrinkle
that needs to be smoothed,
a stranger who should be fed.

Hands, those humble wings
that make each day
fly toward its goal;
at rest, still holding
the shape of a tool.

Bert Meyers, Images, X, 1981
(The Wild Olive Tree & The Blue Café)

The Queen Is Dead | The Smiths, 1986

 Kenneth Hall, Buckingham Palace from the Mall, 1937

Oh, take me back to dear old Blighty
Put me on the train for London Town
Take me anywhere
Drop me anywhere
In Liverpool, Leeds or Birmingham
But I don't care
I should like to see—
I don't bless them

[Intro] Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty,
Cicely Courtneidge, 1962  


(Farewell) To this land's cheerless marshes
Hemmed in like a boar between archers
Her very Lowness with her head in a sling
I'm truly sorry, but it sounds like a wonderful thing
I say, "Charles, don't you ever crave
To appear on the front of the Daily Mail
Dressed in your mother's bridal veil?
 
And so I checked all the registered historical facts
And I was shocked into shame to discover
How I'm the 18th pale descendent
Of some old queen or other
Oh, has the world changed or have I changed?
Oh, has the world changed or have I changed?
Some nine year old tough who peddles drugs
I swear to God, I swear I never even knew what drugs were
 
So I broke into the Palace
With a sponge and a rusty spanner
She said, "Eh, I know you, and you cannot sing"
I said, "That's nothing, you should hear me play piano"
We can go for a walk where it's quiet and dry
And talk about precious things
But when you are tied to your mother's apron
No-one talks about castration
 
We can go for a walk where it's quiet and dry
And talk about precious things
Like love and law and poverty, oh, oh
(These are the things that kill me)
We can go for a walk where it's quiet and dry
And talk about precious things
But the rain that flattens my hair, oh
(These are the things that kill me)
All their lies about makeup and long hair, are still there
 
Past the pub that saps your body
And the church who'll snatch your money
The Queen is dead, boys
And it's so lonely on a limb
Pass the pub that wrecks your body
And the church, all they want is your money
The Queen is dead, boys
And it's so lonely on a limb
 
Life is very long when you're lonely


The Smiths - The Queen Is Dead -  1986

The Smiths, The Queen Is Dead Tour, 1986 poster

Alphabetarion # Kitchen | Ray Bradbury, 1957

Pablo Picasso, The Kitchen, 1948 

“Grandma, he had often wanted to say, Is this where the world began? For surely it had 
begun in no other than a place like this. The kitchen, without doubt, was the center of 
creation, all things revolved about it; it was the pediment that sustained the temple.”

Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine, 1957

Book Covers | Edward Gorey (1959 - 1964)

Henry James, Lady Barberina and Other Tales, 1961             P. M. Hubbard, Picture of Millie, 1964
H. G. Wells, War of the Worlds, 1960                         Edgar Allan Poe, Tales of the Grotesque and the Arabesque, 1960
Bernard Shaw, The Black Girl in Search of God, 1959        Anton Chekhov, St. Peter's Day and Other Tales, 1959 
Cover Design by Edward Gorey / Illustrations by John Farleigh                                                                  
Τhe Book of Courtier, Baldesar Castiglione, 1959         Selected Poems And Letters of Emily Dickinson, 1959
C.P. Snow, The masters, 1959                              Kierkegaard, Doubleday Anchor, 1960
Donald Barthelme, Come Back, Dr. Caligari, 1964              Nikolay Chernyshevsky, What Is to Be Done?, 1961


                                
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...