“She had bought herself a blotting book, writing case, pen-holder, and envelopes, although she had no one to write to; she dusted her what-not, looked at herself in the glass, picked up a book, and then, dreaming between the lines, let it drop on her knees. She longed to travel or to go back to her convent. She wished at the same time to die and to live in Paris.”
— Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
Hand painted, exceptionally rare miniature bat fan. On thin shaved wood. Circa 1900.
Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.
Joan Didion (via mythologyofblue)
there is no audience to perform for, there is no approval, no admiration to attain. there is no role worth playing, there is no one to convince. let it go
“Goethe has said, that in youth we cannot be happy unless we love. I did not love; but I was devoured by a restless wish to be something to others.”
— Mary Shelley, from The Last Man.
The Vicarage, home of the late Dowager Duchess of Devonshire