One of my old photos in the new 0_100 Flipbook.
Last weekend in Coney Island.
Romaine Brooks. La Jaquette Rouge. (1916)
This reminds me of something I saw yesterday.
kind of via constant seige.
Arthur Schnitzler. Dream Story.
Fridolin bent lower, as though he could, with his piercing look, wrest an answer from the rigid features. Yet at the same time he knew that if it were her face, and her eyes, the eyes that had shone at him the day before with so much passion, he would not, could not — and in reality did not, want to know. He gently laid the head back on the table. His eyes followed the moving flashlight, passing along the dead body. Was it her body? — the wonderful alluring body for which, only yesterday, he had felt such agonizing desire? Fridolin touched the forehead, the cheeks, the shoulders and arms of the dead woman, doing so as if compelled and directed by an invisible power. He twined his fingers about those of the corpse, and rigid as they were, they seemed to him to make an effort to move, to seize his hand. Indeed, he almost felt that a vague and distant look from underneath her eyelids was searching his face.
