the monks described me as "a pleasure to have on the mountain"

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@peirokalos
the monks described me as "a pleasure to have on the mountain"

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some of you people are so annoying. i mean me too but good lord
een deel van jullie is zo irritant. ik bedoel ik ook maar lieve god
Czesław Miłosz, from “A Magic Mountain” (tr. Czesław Miłosz), New and Collected Poems: 1931-2001
[Text ID: “And the fog from the ocean is cool, for once again it is July”]
A soft liquid joy like the noise of many waters flowed over his memory and he felt in his heart the soft peace of silent spaces of fading tenuous sky above the waters, of oceanic silence, of swallows flying through the seadusk over the flowing waters.
— James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Chapter 5)
Tristano di Robilant, Window, Venice, 1978

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Last year, we went on a school trip and a friend of mine took the most beautiful pictures of the Sahara that I’ve ever seen
Poem by Denis Johnson
Dieric Bouts, The Ascension of the Elect (detail), c. 1470
Cave paintings from Magura Cave, Bulgaria, estimated to be around 10k-8k years old depicting animals and people, hunting, ritual dances, and deities

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May Sarton, The Poetry of May Sarton
"How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say, God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words get it wrong. We say bread and it means according to which nation. French has no word for home, and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people in northern India is dying out because their ancient tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would finally explain why the couples on their tombs are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated, they seemed to be business records. But what if they are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light. O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper, as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor. Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this desire in the dark. Perhaps this spiral Minoan script is not a language but a map. What we feel most has no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds."
— Jack Gilbert, The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart
Auguste Rodin
Amour et Psyché, 1886
A patient, explaining what their relationship is to their new visitor who was headed up to see them, said, “he’s my guardian,” and I said “oh I didn’t you had a legal guardian,” and the patient said, “he’s not my legal guardian, he’s my spiritual and physical guardian. He is also my brother. Well, I say he’s my brother. He’s like a brother. He’s my husband.” And I say this with genuinely no judgment, just pure curiosity, what
“A rose is a rose is a rose, but not to the perfumer. Russian rose is softer, Indian thinner, Egyptian richer, Turkish sweeter, Bulgarian rounder, Moroccan brighter. Jasmine sambac is sharp, while grandiflorum jasmine is more full-bodied. Deepgreen Tasmanian boronia has a rich herbal scent, whereas the bright orange kind has a sweet-tart citrusy odor. Spanish, Tunisian, and French orange flower absolute all vary in sweetness and depth.”
—
Mandy Aftel, Essence and Alchemy: A Natural History of Perfume

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May your sky always be clear, may your dear smile always be bright and happy, and may you be for ever blessed for that moment of bliss and happiness which you gave to another lonely and grateful heart. Isn't such a moment sufficient for the whole of one's life?
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights
The nice thing about this heatwave is that you get to feel like Gilgamesh, prince of Uruk and contemplator of the deep, lost and grieving in the sun-lacerated deserts of bronze age Mesopotamia whilst you're getting the shopping from your local Aldi.