Theatre Noir
A collection of little treasures to enrich your life with.To the decadent . the fool . the bewitched and the bewildered.
Moi, je n’ai ni boucle lustrée,
Ni gant, ni bouquet, ni soulier,
Mais je garde, empreinte adorée,
Une larme sur un papier:


Pure rosée, unique goutte,
D’un ciel d’azur tombée un jour,
Joyau sans prix, perle dissoute
Dans la coupe de mon amour!

Et, pour moi, cette obscure tache
Reluit comme un écrin d’Ophyr,
Et du vélin bleu se détache,
Diamant éclos d’un saphir


by Théophile Gaultier -Diamant du coeur  (via unejeunedemoiselle)

(Source: emauxetcamees, via lapetiteromantique)

In my dreams the world would come alive, becoming so captivatingly majestic, free and ethereal, that afterwards it would be oppressive to breathe the dust of this painted life.
by Vladimir Nabokov  (via at-le-petit-cafe)

(Source: seabois, via lapetiteromantique)

And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.
by Friedrich Nietzsche (via incisio)

(via lapetiteromantique)

And so being young
and dipped in folly,
I fell in love
with melancholy.
by Edgar Allan Poe (via jvck)

(via lapetiteromantique)

Que tu me plais dans cette robe
Qui te déshabille si bien,
Faisant jaillir ta gorge en globe,
Montrant tout nu ton bras païen !

Frêle comme une aile d’abeille,
Frais comme un cœur de rose-thé,
Son tissu, caresse vermeille,
Voltige autour de ta beauté.

De l’épiderme sur la soie
Glissent des frissons argentés,
Et l’étoffe à la chair renvoie
Ses éclairs roses reflétés.


by Théophile Gautier -A la robe rose , Emaux et Camées  (via voixdouce)

(Source: emauxetcamees, via lapetiteromantique)

Paris, hours in the café, a certain spirit of rebellion, one side a bit too stubborn, the sea, the true, in Bretagne, the walking in Provence, the taste, the passion for literature, the libraries, the beautiful editions, remaking the world in a set of hours around a table and a bottle of wine. Talking without really saying nothing, just for the pleasure of talking. The museums, the theatres, the elegance, the delicacy, the heritage of the Illustration, a humanistic philosophy. The balance we got between a nordic rigor and a latin savoir-vivre, the insolence and the freedom.
by (via daisydandelions)

(Source: clemence-poesy, via lapetiteromantique)

The artistic life is a long, lovely suicide.
by Oscar Wilde (via tr4velingsoul)

(via lait-de-rose)

This is very important – to take leisure time. Pace is the essence. Without stopping entirely and doing nothing at all for great periods, you’re gonna lose everything, just to do nothing at all. And how many people do this in modern society? Very few. That’s why they’re all totally mad, frustrated, angry and hateful.
by Charles Bukowski (via aspirethesenses)
They felt as if they were home again. The wide warm night, and the scent of flowers and the sea, and the silence, bathed them like soothing water.
by The Subtle Knife (via diegoxherrera)

(via macaronsandmimosas)

Flowers through the window
lavender and yellow

changed by white curtains –
Smell of cleanliness –

Sunshine of late afternoon –
On the glass tray

a glass pitcher, the tumbler
turned down, by which

a key is lying – And the
immaculate white bed


by Nantucket by William Carlos Williams (via sometimespeoplarebeautiful)

(Source: theytastethespring, via macaronsandmimosas)

To care passionately for another human creature brings always more sorrow than joy; but all the same, Elinor, one would not be without that experience. Anyone who has never really loved has never really lived.
by Mrs. Welman. Sad Cypress. (via moonshards)

(via theside-effect)

To say a man does mad things because he is mad is merely unintelligent and stupid. A madman is as logical and reasoned in his actions as a sane man - given his peculiar biased point of view. For example, if a man insists on going out and squatting about in nothing but a loin cloth his conduct seems eccentric in the extreme. But once you know that the man himself is firmly convinced that he is Mahatma Gandhi, then his conduct becomes perfectly reasonable and logical.
by Hercule Poirot, The A.B.C. Murders by Agatha Christie (via pinnacleofmadness)

(Source: thewigmonsters)

[Stupidity] is the sin that is never forgiven and always punished, Madame.
by Hercule Poirot, “Cards on the Table” by Agatha Christie (via pinnacleofmadness)

(Source: thewigmonsters)

Reality doesn’t impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls.
by Anaïs Nin (via cartere)

(via flowersyndrome-deactivated20140)

Under your skin the moon is alive.
by Ode To A Naked Beauty, by Pablo Neruda (via lavendertree)

(Source: seabois, via thegirlwhofoundbravery-deactiva)

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