beautyandcuriosity:

ANCIENT GREEK SERPENT ARMBAND 4th-3rd century BC




“Hemingway and James Joyce were drinking buddies in Paris. Joyce was thin and bespectacled; Hemingway was tall and strapping. When they went out Joyce would get drunk, pick a fight with a bigger guy in the bar and then hide behind Hemingway and yell, “Deal with him, Hemingway. Deal with him.””

[x] (via newzerokaneda)

Between this and the story about him reassuring F. Scott Fitzgerald re dick size, I’m developing a picture of Hemingway as the mother hen of the disaffected white male literary set of the early 20th century.

He probably called up Steinbeck sometimes and was like I CAN’T EVEN WITH THESE DIPSHITS and Steinbeck was all “That’s what you get for living in Paris, asshole”.

(via copperbadge)




vlajean:

art history meme. 2/8 artists

gian lorenzo bernini (1598-1680)




raqstarnails:

Anne Boleyn/ King Henry VIII inspired nail set




marthajefferson:

design-is-fine:

Carolus Graf & Michael Kauffer, calendar disc, 1685. Made in Augsburg Germany. Landesmuseum Wuerttemberg, Stuttgart 📷 Frankenstein Zwietasch




flyartproductions:

Beez in tha alps

Napoleon crossing the alps, Jacques-Louis David (1801) / Beez in Tha Trap, Nicki Minaj




ohsoromanov:

A letter to her little brother Aleksei (Alexei), from 1916:

My darling Aleksei,

It is very lonely here without you and Papa. It was so nice to visit you in Mogelev! The weather is warm. We’re sitting on the balcony. Just came back with Maria and Shvibz from the Big Palace. Tell Papa that Sister Movutsina has crossed eyes. Very strange. There are many wounded. Some old colonel from Siberia, who is your Godfather, sent you his regards and wished you health, etc. Of course I fogot his last name. Tell V.N. that there are many wounded. Forty eight. Yesterday they brought eleven more people and they’re all layng down. They’re from near Riga, the Siberian Regiments. Everyone is all right. All keep asking about you and want to see you. Please thank P.V.P for his letter and tell him he can write again.

Well, good-bye my darling Aleksei. May the Lord protect you all. I kiss you many, many times. I hug you mentally and love you very, very much.

Your Tatiana

I embrace you.




art-and-fury:

Capitoline Wolf - she-wolf with the twin infants Romulus and Remus, c.1200, unknown artist




Burgonet 1550




the-library-and-step-on-it:

FROM THE VAULTS:

Greek Mythology Reworked

Ulysses, James Joyce

She would follow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.

The Secret History, Donna Tartt

It’s a very Greek idea, and a very profound one. Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. And what could be more terrifying and beautiful, to souls like the Greeks or our own, than to lose control completely? To throw off the chains of being for an instant, to shatter the accident of our mortal selves?

The Penelopiad, Margaret Atwood

I picture the gods, diddling around on Olympus, wallowing in the nectar and ambrosia and the aroma of burning bones and fat, mischievous as a pack of ten-year-olds with a sick cat to play with and a lot of time on their hands. ‘Which prayer shall we answer today?’ they ask one another. ‘Let’s cast the dice! Hope for this one, despair for that one, and while we’re at it, let’s destroy the life of that woman over there by having sex with her in the form of a crayfish!’ I think they pull a lot of their pranks because they’re bored.

The Early Poems, Alfred Lord Tennyson

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew

Endymion, John Keats

Until, from the horizon’s vaulted side, 
There shot a golden splendour far and wide,
Spangling those million poutings of the brine 
With quivering ore: ‘twas even an awful shine 
From the exaltation of Apollo’s bow; 
A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe.

The Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller

“Name one hero who was happy.” 
I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason’s children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophon killed the Chimera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus’ back. 
“You can’t.” He was sitting up now, leaning forward. 
“I can’t.” 
“I know. They never let you be famous AND happy.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll tell you a secret.” 
“Tell me.” I loved it when he was like this. 
“I’m going to be the first.”




France, early 18th century, silk and metallic thread embroidery on silk




“The niece of the great Mongol leader, Kubla Khan, Princess Khutulun was described by Marco Polo as the greatest warrior in Khan’s army. She told her uncle she would marry any man who could wrestle her and win. If they lost they had to give her 100 horses.

She died unmarried with 10,000 horses.”



ilvalentinos:

For creepyunclerichard and okayophelia.

léa seydoux as lucrezia borgia
sophie turner as giulia farnese
sebastian stan as cesare borgia
ian mcshane as pope alexander vi

FERRARA, 1509. Two years since the death of Cesare Borgia at Viana, and six since Pope Alexander VI breathed his last to the delight of all Italy. In the gilded rooms of the Castle Estense, Lucrezia Borgia, last remaining member of the once glorious House of Borgia, is awaiting the birth of her fourth child when Giulia Farnese arrives unexpectedly on the steps of her castle. In a series of interlocking memories, the two women recall the rise and fall of a dynasty; from the sunsoaked plains of Xativa to the shadowed intrigues of the Eternal City, and finally to the meteoric fall from grace of the family that had, for a few short years, ruled Christendom.

Woven, always, into the stories these two old friends share by firelight, is the figure of a man known to the world as Il Valentino; hated by many, feared by all, and forgotten by none. In the corners of the palazzo, Cesare Borgia lingers. In books Lucrezia keeps by her bedside, the Spanish oranges which perfume the room, and the sword she keeps encased in glass - inscribed, in a boast made too early, with the words aut caesar aut nihil - the memory of the man who had inspired Machiavelli’s greatest work lives on within his sister’s four walls.

You don’t do me justice, sis. Lucrezia waits. Lucrezia speaks. Lucrezia remembers.




speciesbarocus:

The Royal Palace, Turin




daughterofchaos:

Embroidered Wall Hanging

France, early 18th century, silk and metallic thread embroidery on silk

via Sarajo on 1stdibs.com




LH