1. uboot5161:

Geist und Schönheit

    uboot5161:

    Geist und Schönheit

    (via hierarchical-aestheticism)

    5 days ago  /  26 notes  /  Source: uboot5161

  2. photo

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    photo

    6 days ago  /  2,503 notes  /  Source: ffoart

  3. (via nuthien)

    6 days ago  /  384 notes  /  Source: shambra

  4. The first drypoint I’ve ever made, a portrait of my grandfather. Damn, time flies like hell.

    The first drypoint I’ve ever made, a portrait of my grandfather. Damn, time flies like hell.

    1 week ago  /  1 note

  5. Wilhelm Bölsche’s epic tale of of life, “Das Liebesleben in der Natur” 
The Hungarian title is more poetic though. My copies are dated to 1910, still raging at myself, for loosing the third volume on a train, on my way to Budapest…

The books speak about the origins of matter and life, Flora, Fauna, and Mankind, evolution, the love that keeps on living, in a quite German, romanticist way, still keeping it Darwinist.

The work shows quite well the zeitgeist of the early XX. century’s Europe, as it states, that the species of Homo Sapiens was born in Europe, then the tribes, which couldn’t adapt to the harsh environment began to populate the southern continents such as Africa.

    Wilhelm Bölsche’s epic tale of of life, “Das Liebesleben in der Natur”
    The Hungarian title is more poetic though. My copies are dated to 1910, still raging at myself, for loosing the third volume on a train, on my way to Budapest…

    The books speak about the origins of matter and life, Flora, Fauna, and Mankind, evolution, the love that keeps on living, in a quite German, romanticist way, still keeping it Darwinist.

    The work shows quite well the zeitgeist of the early XX. century’s Europe, as it states, that the species of Homo Sapiens was born in Europe, then the tribes, which couldn’t adapt to the harsh environment began to populate the southern continents such as Africa.

    1 week ago  /  1 note

  6. anachoretique:

Maskers. Maskerfeesten. Groep gemaskerde en in bontjassen geklede personen op en voor een kanon tijdens het Mohacs Maskerfeest. Plaats onbekend, Hongarije, 1935.
via Memory of the Netherlands

    anachoretique:

    Maskers. Maskerfeesten. Groep gemaskerde en in bontjassen geklede personen op en voor een kanon tijdens het Mohacs Maskerfeest. Plaats onbekend, Hongarije, 1935.

    via Memory of the Netherlands

    (via hierarchical-aestheticism)

    1 week ago  /  187 notes  /  Source: scanzen

  7. 1 week ago  /  16 notes  /  Source: zentropista

  8. "-You’ve got money?
-Not a penny. I’ll still take that chicken.”

    "-You’ve got money?
    -Not a penny. I’ll still take that chicken.”

    1 week ago  /  1 note

  9. surreis:

Martin Vybiral

    surreis:

    Martin Vybiral

    (via bizarredisco)

    1 week ago  /  75 notes  /  Source: surreis

  10. photo

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    1 week ago  /  3 notes  /  Source: arthuryanthar

  11. 1 week ago  /  132,324 notes  /  Source: nouvelle-vague

  12. blackmountainmass:

awakenedvibrations: free-parking: Amy Friend
๑The Realm of Awakened Vibrations ๑
There was a sweet sea-like sound in the trees above our heads, we walked backwards & forwards some time for dear John’s sake. —Dorothy Wordsworth, 02.22.1802

    blackmountainmass:

    awakenedvibrations: free-parking: Amy Friend

    ๑The Realm of Awakened Vibrations ๑

    There was a sweet sea-like sound in the trees above our heads, we walked backwards & forwards some time for dear John’s sake. —Dorothy Wordsworth, 02.22.1802

    1 week ago  /  6,151 notes  /  Source: free-parking

  13. photo

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    1 week ago  /  0 notes

  14. Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood -a must-read.

    Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood -a must-read.

    1 week ago  /  0 notes

  15. antediluvianechoes:

Wounded by a Wild Boar, Zdeněk Burian, 1951

All those rhythms—the staccato shush of his legs against the tall the grass; the slap of his feet on the earth; the drumming of the hog’s hooves, and its body plowing through the field, vegetation whispering against its coarse hide; his ragged breath; the panicked cries that leaked from his lungs; the angry, undulating buzz of August cicadas; his own little heart banging against his ribs, throbbing in his ears—and above them all was the shrill, deafening squeal of the boar, like a siren, piercing his ears, driving the man to run faster. 

Their meeting was purely accidental. He was looking for berries, blackcurrants mostly. He’d heard the sound of something rummaging through the forest floor, but dismissed it—A deer, he speculated—and focused on finding those spots of tart, glossy night amongst the leaves. When he heard the grunts, it was too late.

It saw him first. The boar charged before the man even turned around. He wheeled and barely sidestepped it, the pig barreling past him. It twisted and charged again, but by then the man was running. He sprinted into the clearing, hoping the boar would ignore him if he got enough distance, but it followed, racing, crashing, shrieking after him. The man didn’t dare look back. He just listened to the rhythms and the cry of the crazed pig. He scanned the trees ahead and saw a youngish oak with a low branch. He hoped he’d reach it without his legs seizing in cramps or his lungs suddenly giving up. He was a bit astonished he’d survived this long. 

At the tree, his legs buzzed with adrenaline as he jumped. Black-stained fingers gripped the branch, and he hauled his top-heavy body up, gangly legs swinging like sync-less pendulums. As he reached for the next branch, he felt a jab in his right calf. The boar! The man barked a noise that sounded like laughing, but was far from it: a frayed “Heh ha ha!” born of fear and burning lungs. He hefted himself higher, bending his limbs up and out, hoping they would be beyond the boar’s reach. He could feel his blood dripping down his leg, and heard the animal hopping and stamping below him, still snorting and screaming furiously. 

Finally he drew his legs up. They tingled and wobbled as he stood, his feet barely feeling the bark of the branch. He trusted his arms and hands more than his fear-charged legs, and gripped the tree tighter. The boar’s squeals stopped. It grunted again a few times, then trotted back to the bushes. The man watched it go, his heart still pounding, his breaths still short.


He looked at his leg. The gash was bad: his blood left a bright red delta on his calf. He inspected it gingerly, pinching the meat to try to stop the bleeding, and hissed at the pain. At his hip hung the pouch of berries. The fruits inside were still intact, uncrushed during the flight, though he wondered if they were worth it.

    antediluvianechoes:

    Wounded by a Wild Boar, Zdeněk Burian, 1951

    All those rhythms—the staccato shush of his legs against the tall the grass; the slap of his feet on the earth; the drumming of the hog’s hooves, and its body plowing through the field, vegetation whispering against its coarse hide; his ragged breath; the panicked cries that leaked from his lungs; the angry, undulating buzz of August cicadas; his own little heart banging against his ribs, throbbing in his ears—and above them all was the shrill, deafening squeal of the boar, like a siren, piercing his ears, driving the man to run faster. 

    Their meeting was purely accidental. He was looking for berries, blackcurrants mostly. He’d heard the sound of something rummaging through the forest floor, but dismissed it—A deer, he speculated—and focused on finding those spots of tart, glossy night amongst the leaves. When he heard the grunts, it was too late.

    It saw him first. The boar charged before the man even turned around. He wheeled and barely sidestepped it, the pig barreling past him. It twisted and charged again, but by then the man was running. He sprinted into the clearing, hoping the boar would ignore him if he got enough distance, but it followed, racing, crashing, shrieking after him. The man didn’t dare look back. He just listened to the rhythms and the cry of the crazed pig. He scanned the trees ahead and saw a youngish oak with a low branch. He hoped he’d reach it without his legs seizing in cramps or his lungs suddenly giving up. He was a bit astonished he’d survived this long. 

    At the tree, his legs buzzed with adrenaline as he jumped. Black-stained fingers gripped the branch, and he hauled his top-heavy body up, gangly legs swinging like sync-less pendulums. As he reached for the next branch, he felt a jab in his right calf. The boar! The man barked a noise that sounded like laughing, but was far from it: a frayed “Heh ha ha!” born of fear and burning lungs. He hefted himself higher, bending his limbs up and out, hoping they would be beyond the boar’s reach. He could feel his blood dripping down his leg, and heard the animal hopping and stamping below him, still snorting and screaming furiously. 

    Finally he drew his legs up. They tingled and wobbled as he stood, his feet barely feeling the bark of the branch. He trusted his arms and hands more than his fear-charged legs, and gripped the tree tighter. The boar’s squeals stopped. It grunted again a few times, then trotted back to the bushes. The man watched it go, his heart still pounding, his breaths still short.

    He looked at his leg. The gash was bad: his blood left a bright red delta on his calf. He inspected it gingerly, pinching the meat to try to stop the bleeding, and hissed at the pain. At his hip hung the pouch of berries. The fruits inside were still intact, uncrushed during the flight, though he wondered if they were worth it.

    1 week ago  /  31 notes  /  Source: antediluvianechoes