Giveaway Contest: We’re Giving Away Ten Vintage Paperback Classics By Kurt Vonnegut, Virginia Woolf,

Giveaway Contest: We’re giving away ten vintage paperback classics by James Joyce, George Eliot, John Steinbeck, William Golding, Ray Bradbury, and others. Won’t these look lovely on your shelf? :D To win these classics, you must: 1) reblog this post and 2) be following macrolit. (Yes, we will check. :P) We will randomly choose a winner on February 15, at which time we’ll start a new giveaway. And yes, we’ll ship to any country. Easy, right? Good luck!

Saturday Night In by expatesque

Flickering candles, face masks, a few glasses of wine, the whisper of silk, cascading hair, lazy luxury.

_________

Giveaway Contest: We’re giving away ten Penguin Classics editions by John Steinbeck, Willa Cather, Arthur Miller, Homer, Mark Twain, and others. Won’t these look lovely on your shelf? :D To win these classics, you must: 1) be following macrolit on Tumblr (yes, we will check. :P), and 2) reblog this post. We will randomly choose a winner on August 15, at which time we’ll start a new giveaway. And yes, we’ll ship to any country. Easy, right? Good luck!

Mosque, Cordoba Spain

http://www.catedraldecordoba.es

Musée du Louvre, Paris, 2005

Photo by Candida Höfer

See more Candida Höfer posts here.

Six rare Denise Levertov poetry readings, illustrated by artist Ohara Hale

Cherry Blosoms, Japan

source

In the Deep South, God is a cotton king, Trussed up in plantation whites and powdered over smooth with a little bit of talcum from Momma’s compact. He’s the Georgia dust that gets on everything, in everything, Caking the soles of bare feet sifting through cracks in church pews, and catching in your lover’s eyelashes. In the Deep South, the Devil is a beautiful boy who swears and cheats at billiards on Sunday. He is the one who reaches up your skirt, pulls out the prayers your were saving for someday and lights them on fire with his tongue. He will sing hymns while feasting on your forfeit heart, call you blessed while peeling away dignity like stockings, then drag you out in front of the church to be stoned. In the Deep South, the Holy Spirit is an old woman with hands brown and gnarled as the nuts she boils and a voice soft and dark as the Appalachian sky. She is the swamp kingdom matriarch children are sent to when sins need to be wished away like warts, the presence of whom straightens the spines of wayward souls and coaxes a “Yes Ma’am” from the devil’s own. In the Deep South, Jesus is a mixed-race child with drops of destiny mingled into his blood and the names of the saints tattooed along his spine. He has his mother’s bearing, one that wears suffering nobly, and baleful eyes that speak of the sins of his forefathers. The word of God flutters from his mouth like butterflies with bodies baptized in tears and wings dipped in steel. In the Deep South, angels drink too much. They sashay and guffaw and forget to return calls. They tell white lies and agonize over what to wear. In the Deep South, angels look very much like you and it, and they cling to each other with dustbowl desperation and replenish their failing reserves of grace with ritual in the hopes of remembering what they once were, what wonders they once were capable of performing.

Hossana Americana by S.T. Gibson (via sarahtaylorgibson)

Homo habilis OH 62

(Haeusler & McHenry 2004, Journal of Human Evolution)