que saudade;
Ludwig Wittgenstein composed a photo album that features
images of the same individuals and places, over and over, in dif-
ferent configurations, on the repetitively rules pages of a note-
book. Some of the photos are identical to others in the album,
but the effect of the repetition is to undermine itself, because
each instance of each photo of each individual person or place
differs from all the other instances, not just according to the
size of each print, its placement and orientation on the page,
the mages it is combined with or precedes and follows, but also
according to the particular circumstance of the viewer’s own
relationship to the album at any given moment. As much as
the internal rhymes of the album are a catalogue of relation-
ships, relatives, relativity, they are just as much a language-free
philosophical investigation into the specificity, queerness and
solitude of all experience.

— Angus Cook, Matthew Barney, Elizabeth Peyton, Blood of Two, p. 60 (via comna)

(Source: denzilposada)

봄날, 벚꽃 그리고 너(Spring, cherry blossoms and you) ~ 에피톤 프로젝트

(Source: cafe-latte, via jailbait)

“What has history to do with me? Mine is the first and only world!”

Ludwig Wittgenstein, Notebooks 1914-1916

(Source: a-weltanschauung)

I do not like the gringos at all. They are very boring and all have faces like unbaked rolls.
Frida Kahlo (via sinidentidades)
tumblngtumblwd:

Theodore Roosevelt.  c. 1890-1910.
speciesbarocus:


Érik Desmazières illustration for Jorge Luis Borges’s story The Library of Babel (2000).
When age fell upon the world, and wonder went out of the minds of men; when grey cities reared to smoky skies tall towers grim and ugly, in whose shadow none might dream of the sun or of spring’s flowering meads; when learning stripped earth of her mantle of beauty, and poets sang no more save of twisted phantoms seen with bleared and inward-looking eyes; when these things had come to pass, and childish hopes had gone away forever, there was a man who travelled out of life on a quest into the spaces whither the world’s dreams had fled.
— H.P. Lovecraft
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