undr:
Mr. and Mrs. J. D. Drew, Montclair, N.J.
Maids O’ The Mist
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Petit Prince, je suis prête pour une vie de paillettes et je t’attends comme on attend le soleil.
— Fanny Bloom, “Tes bijoux”
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I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.
— Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out (via milkwoods)
(Source: fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
Feather in the Wind
There is a classic French-Canadian novel, Le Survenant. It’s set in the 1910’s, in the country. The protagonist is mysterious; he is a traveller without a name, without a history, never staying very long at the same place. The book is about his stay in the country village. He is described by some as “a feather in the wind” (“une plume dans le vent”).
I remember coming to a realisation as I watched the (very well made) film adaptation: how could I ever fall in love with anyone other than a feather in the wind? How could I ever manage to love someone enough to endure their everlasting presence? Lately, I realised I had it the wrong way around, for I am the feather in the wind. A feather that twirls about, never to find its bird (its home). Getting caught in branches sometimes, and feeling comfortable there for a while until the wind blows again. Never really feeling complete, because it will remain forever birdless. Never really feeling empty, because it has the strength of the wind, the warmth of the branches, the beauty of the sky.
And I don’t know if it’s about finding a really sticky branch, or finding the unfindable bird, or enjoying the flight.
