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@dwellsinparadise

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Sylvia Sydney and Gary Cooper. This is from the film City Streets (1930).
"I just try to walk my own path," he said. "You have to believe in yourself, and you have to ride out the seasons. Everybody wants it to be summer all the time, in relationships, and with their career. And when the weather starts to turn, they think they better get out. So, it takes a certain amount of persistence."
Noah Steenbruggen by Yorick Nubé
part 6

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Frida Kahlo
Claudette Colbert, 1934
Cecília Meireles, from a poem titled "Silk and Ashes," featured in Antologia poética
Anais Pouliot by Alina Lebedeva

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The oppressor would not be so strong if he did not have accomplices among the oppressed.
—Simone de Beauvoir
I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hate so stubbornly is because they sense that once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.
—James Baldwin, Nobody Knows My Name
Photo by Richard Avedon
Gian Lorenzo Bernini. His rendition of Apollo and Daphne (1622–24) was intended to be viewed from one spot as if it were a relief. She is mid-transition into a tree to escape him, and you can actually see through the marble leaf petals; they are so delicate. In the Galleria Borghese, Rome.

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The tragedy-sniffers are all
about
they get up in the morning
and begin to find things
wrong
and they fling themselves
into a rage about
it,
a rage that lasts until
bedtime,
where even there
they twist in their
insomnia,
not able to rid their
mind
of the petty obstacles
they have
encountered.
They feel set against,
it’s a plot.
And by being constantly
angry they feel that
they are constantly
right.
You see them in traffic
honking wildly
at the slightest
infraction,
cursing,
spewing their
invectives.
You feel them
in lines
at banks
at supermarkets
at movies,
they are pressing
at your back
walking on your
heels,
they are impatient to
a fury.
They are everywhere
and into
everything,
these violently
unhappy
souls.
Actually they are
frightened,
never wanting to be
wrong
they lash out
incessantly
it is a malady
an illness of
that
breed.
The first one
I saw like that
was my
father
and since then
I have seen a
thousand
fathers,
ten thousand
fathers
wasting their lives
in hatred,
tossing their lives
into the
cesspool
and
ranting
on.
The daughter of a wealthy Spanish Republican, Maria Casarès was an extraordinary woman, fully capable as one commentator has written of playing Don Juana to Camus's Don Juan, though often resentful of the fact that he refused to leave his wife and children for her. Casarès discussed her often stormy sixteen-year relationship with Camus in her 1980 autobiography Résidente privilégiée.