roman.a.clef

"I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.”
― William Shakespeare
transistoradio:

Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890), Fritillaries in a Copper Vase (1887), oil on canvas, 60.5 x 73.5 cm. Collection of Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France. Via WikiArt.

transistoradio:

Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890), Fritillaries in a Copper Vase (1887), oil on canvas, 60.5 x 73.5 cm. Collection of Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France. Via WikiArt.

An absolute panic took hold of me. I no longer knew where I was going. I ran along the docks, I turned into the deserted streets of the Beauvoisis district: the houses watched my flight with their mournful eyes. I kept saying to myself in anguish: “Where shall I go? Where shall I go? Anything can happen.” Every now and then, with my heart pounding wildly, I would suddenly swing round: what was happening behind my back? Perhaps it would start behind me, and when I suddenly turned round it would be too late.

Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre (via thusreluctant)

But to love something despite. To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect.

—Patrick Rothfuss