The meaning of life is just to be alive. It is so plain and so obvious and so simple. And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves.
— Alan Watts (via invaderxan)
“You Don’t Have to Be Pretty. You don’t owe prettiness to anyone. Not to your boyfriend/spouse/partner, not to your co-workers, especially not to random men on the street. You don’t owe it to your mother, you don’t owe it to your children, you don’t owe it to civilization in general. Prettiness is not a rent you pay for occupying a space marked “female”.”
Readers and reading were sources of constant interest to artists in the Romantic period. The young woman shown here holds Matthew Gregory Lewis’s “terror-gothic” The Monk (1796). A phantasmagoria of murder, suicide, corruption, and incest, it is one of the few novels for which nineteenth-century disapproval might still seem justified, and it was blamed for considerable moral degradation. The subject of Comfort heats her posterior along with her imagination.
There ain’t nothin’ feel so good as a warm butt with a phantasmagoria