please don’t say we’re done when i’m not finished
i could give you so much more
make you feel like never before;
welcome, they said welcome to the floor
/
it’s been a while and you’ve found someone better
but i’ve been waiting too long to give this up
the more i see, i understand but
sometimes i still need you
Drake's Diary: Sixteen Stylish Maxims for the New Year
Style and taste are a particular sort of intelligence, and vice versa.
Aesthetic judgments rarely transcend the culture of the judge.
The style of studied nonchalance is the psychological triumph of grace over order.
Style is a simple way of saying complicated things. Which is why Fashion is shallow, but taste is deep.
There’s no right or wrong about style. Like a poem, it simply is what it is.
Real luxury is understanding quality, and having the time to enjoy it.
In the end, aesthetic judgments are perhaps merely enthusiasms.
In matters of taste, if you can see the trees well enough, you don’t have to see the forest.
To consciously avoid fashion is in itself a fashion.
Today tradition is commercially merely another commodity. As is History.
In a world of plentiful choices, taste is the hallmark of restraint.
Luxury may be, as Balzac says, less expensive than elegance. But both are less expensive than fashion.
Uniforms both include and exclude.
Taste is one of those human concerns in which a lack of experience is no hindrance to opinion.
Precision in dress is the neurotic refuge of the perpetually insecure.
Deliberate nonchalance is intended to imply a strength held in reserve.
(via nickelsonwooster)
"i always wonder why birds choose to stay in the same place when they can fly anywhere on the Earth. then I ask myself the same question."
harun yahya
“i don’t know if i’m unhappy because i’m not free, or if i’m not free because i’m unhappy.”
breathless (1960), jean-luc godard
adriana: i can never decide whether paris is more beautiful by day or by night.
gil: no, you can’t, you couldn’t pick one. i mean, i can give you a checkmate argument for each side. you know, i sometimes think, how is anyone ever gonna come up with a book, or a painting, or a symphony, or a sculpture that can compete with a great city? you can’t. because you look around and every street, every boulevard, is its own special art form and when you think that in the cold, violent, meaningless universe that paris exists, these lights… i mean come on, there’s nothing happening on jupiter or neptune, but from way out in space you can see these lights, the cafés, people drinking and singing. for all we know, paris is the hottest spot in the universe.
midnight in paris (2011), woody allen
not speaking the same language, but somehow understanding each other.
