Photo: Harvey Stein, Coney Island
Marc Riboud : Vers l’Orient, Turquie (1955). Edition Xavier Barral, 2012.
Cagaloglu Hammam, Istambul.
Palestinians marked the 65th anniversary of the “Nakba” or the Day of Catastrophe, which marks their displacement after the creation of the state of Israel.
Tens of thousands of Palestinians protested Wednesday on the 65th anniversary of the “Nakba” or the Day of Catastrophe, which marks their displacement after the creation of the state of Israel.
May 15 is the day Palestinians choose to commemorate the displacement of hundreds of thousands of their kinsman in the aftermath of the Arab-Israeli conflict in 1948.
Protesters chanted, “The right of return will not die.”
Photos by AFP/Getty Images
It was in the Month of Mary that I remember beginning to be fond of hawthorns. Not only were they in the church, which was so holy but which we had the right to enter, they were put up on the altar itself, inseparable from the mysteries in whose celebration they took part, their branches running out among the candles and holy vessels, attached horizontally to one another in a festive preparation and made even lovelier by the festoons of their foliage, on which were scattered in profusion, as on a bridal train, little bunches of buds of a dazzling whiteness. But, though I dared not do more than steal a glance at them, I felt that the ceremonious preparations were alive and that it was ature herself who, by carving those indentations in the leaves, by adding the supreme ornament of those white buds, had made the decorations worthy of what was at once a popular festivity and a mystical celebration. Higher up, there corollas opened here and there with a careless grace, still holding so casually, like a last and vaporous adornment, the bouquet of stamens, delicate as gossamer, which clouded them entirely, that in following, in trying to mime deep inside of myself the motion of their flowering, I imagined it as the quick and thoughtless movement of the head, with coquettish glance and contracted eyes, of a young girl in white, dreamy and alive.
Marcel Proust (Swann’s Way, trans. Lydia Davis)
Gold wreath of oak leaves and acorns, Greek, Late Classical or Early Hellenistic Period, 4th century B.C.
Fassi bride in Fez, Morocco.
I must document how I lay down in this field of flowers at twilight and it was very near to the spot, over by those trees, where I had my first sexual encounter with a man
“Clarissa once, going on top of an omnibus, with him somewhere, Clarissa superficially at least, so easily moved, now in despair, now in the best of spirits, all aquiver in those days and such good company, spotting queer little scenes, names, people from the top of a bus, for they used to explore London and bring back bags full of treasures from the Caledonian market—Clarissa had a theory in those days—they had heaps of theories, always theories, as young people have. It was to explain the feeling they had of dissatisfaction; not knowing people; not being known. For how could they know each other? You met every day; then not for six months, or years. It was unsatisfactory, they agreed, how little one knew people. But she said, sitting on the bus going up Shaftesbury Avenue, she felt herself everywhere; not “here, here, here”; and she tapped the back of the seat; but everywhere. She waved her hand, going up Shaftesbury Avenue. She was all that. So that to know her, or any one, one must seek out the people who completed them; even the places. Odd affinities she had with people she had never spoken to, some woman in the street, some man behind a counter—even trees, barns. It ended in a transcendental theory which, with her horror of death, allowed her to believe, or say that she believed (for all her scepticism), that since our apparitions, the part of us which appears, are so momentarily compared with the other, the unseen part of us, which spreads wide, the unseen might survive, be recovered somehow attached to this person or that, or even haunting certain places after death … perhaps—perhaps.”
Virginia Woolf (Mrs. Dalloway)
The Arrival of the Queen of the Night by Karl Friedrich Schinkel (1815)