The Public Ledger, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, June 8, 1919
The Boston Globe, Massachusetts, June 8, 1950
Micrographic Design in the Shape of a Labyrinth, early 17th century. Pen and ink. Anonymous French or Flemish. Via Metmuseum
This is both amazing and profoundly irritating - the exact writing equivalent of that thing artists do - you know, how they’ll mess up anything that’s on expensive paper and planned in every single detail but get them doodling during a boring lesson and suddenly they’re Michel-bloody-angelo.
The year in meteor showers. A fourteen weeks course in descriptive astronomy. 1870.
someone: i love twice shy ships where they both love each other so so much but they both think the other is just being nice and that they’re just friends!!!
me, remembering when mr. fitzwilliam darcy didn’t realize the depth of miss jane bennet’s affections for mr. charles bingley, setting off a chain of events which nearly destroyed miss bennet’s happiness: you fool, you absolute buffoon, you
“September evening; the yellow flowers of autumn droop speechless over the blue lake’s countenance. A tree was burnt away in a red flame; bats with dark faces fly up in a flurry.”— Georg Trakl, from Poems & Prose: A Bilingual Edition; “Landscape,”
“I wanted to write a book about ghosts, but I was perfectly prepared–I cannot emphasize this too strongly–I was perfectly prepared to keep those ghosts wholly imaginary. I was already doing a lot of splendid research reading all the books about ghosts I could get hold of, and particularly true ghost stories–so much so that it became necessary for me to read a chapter of Little Women every night before I turned out the light–and at the same time I was collecting pictures of houses, particularly odd houses, to see what I could find to make into a suitable haunted house. I read books of architecture and clipped pictures out of magazines and newspapers and learned about cornices and secret stairways and valances and turrets and flying buttresses and gargoyles and all kinds of things that people have done to inoffensive houses, and then I came across a picture in a magazine which really looked right. It was the picture of a house which reminded me vividly of the hideous building in New York; it had the same air of disease and decay, and if ever a house looked like a candidate for a ghost, it was this one. All that I had to identify it was the name of a California town, so I wrote to my mother, who has lived in California all her life, and sent her the picture, asking if she had any idea where I could get information about this ugly house. She wrote back in some surprise. Yes, she knew about the house, although she had not supposed that there were any pictures of it still around. My great-grandfather built it. It had stood empty and deserted for some years before it finally caught fire, and it was generally believed that that was because the people of the town got together one night and burned it down. By then it was abundantly clear to me that I had no choice; the ghosts were after me. In case I had any doubts, however, I came downstairs a few mornings later and found a sheet of copy paper moved to the center of my desk, set neatly away from the general clutter. On the sheet of paper was written DEAD DEAD in my own handwriting. I am accustomed to making notes for books, but not in my sleep; I decided that I had better write the book awake, which I got to work and did.”— Shirley Jackson, “Experience and Fiction”