The architecture of Beijing International Airport made the moving walkways feel endless, but then again it wasn’t the architecture, it was just the way it was. The air is bloated here. Room temperature does not exist. The taxi driver wore an eerily crisp shirt, coral-pink and white. He showed us “200” by making the sign language symbol for love, or hang loose. The ride to the hotel took two hours, or one. Beijing feels like a dream where you know you’re dreaming and something’s the tiniest bit off, which is how you know it’s a dream. You can’t pinpoint what, exactly, it is.
"Ottoline, I adore Life. What do all the fools matter and all the stupidity. They do matter but somehow for me they cannot touch the body of Life. Life is marvellous. I want to be deeply rooted in it - to live - to expand - to breathe in it - to rejoice - to share it. To give and to be asked for Love. I know you understand this for you are thrillingly alive."
- Katherine Mansfield to Ottoline Morel
oh my fucking god
Everyone go home. The internet is over.
From his grave, Magritte is CRYING with laughter.
For Marilyn Monroe's birthday, Open Culture digs up this wonderful photo of her reading Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass – another manifestation of Monroe’s little-known literary side, best embodied in her unpublished poems and penchant for Ulysses.