There’s a regular pattern now: in the morning the day begins calmly, then by the evening I’m sunk in melancholy or pathos — but always on the edge of tears or beyond. Paris is fantastically beautiful during all this period — not gloomy, but deeply and purely tragic — and especially this evening, when there was a first winter fog. I once more became the impersonal consciousness of a great cataclysm — and that stopped my tears.
Simone de Beauvoir, from Letters To Sartre (via violentwavesofemotion)


"some historians think that michelangelo was drawing god in a human brain. very few people knew what one looked like at the time; but michelangelo had dissected cadavers and would have known. it even has the hint of a brain stem. if true this would have been a great "fuck you" to the pope whom he was not friendly with but also would have meant god was in a human brain, or created by man.”

Reblogged from what-rabbit-hole