Sixteenth-century Spanish aristocrat, socialite and spy Ana, Princess of Éboli. She wore an eye patch after going blind in one eye. Her friends included Queen Elisabeth of Spain. She was considered one of the great beauties of her generation.
Portrait: Ana de Mendoza y de Silva, Princess of Éboli (1540-92)
"The Raven" BY EDGAR ALLAN POE Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;— Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”— Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.” Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Forgive your enemy, but remember the bastard's name.
John Wayne
The actor never knew they would use a real horse’s head. This was May 1971 and John Marley was preparing to perform in the most iconic scene in The Godfather, playing the corrupt movie producer who wakes up to find a horse’s head in his bed. Reportedly, Marley assumed this would just be a plastic prop. But the director, Francis Ford Coppola, had other ideas.
In a note to himself, Coppola observed, “If the audience does not jump out of their seats on this one, you have failed.” So he quietly sent an assistant to a dogfood factory to pick up a genuine head, newly hewn from the shoulders of a racehorse. She brought the stinking object back in a freezer box and it was slipped into the bed with Marley for maximum authenticity.
At one point, the story goes, the actor’s bare toe nudged against the bloody head, and he lost control: by that account, his screams of horror are real.
(The blood was fake.)
Photo submitted by William Mattiford Jr
🐀LESSON FOR MANY🐀 A mouse, looking through a hole in the wall, sees the farmer and his wife open a package. He was terrified to see that it was a mousetrap. He ran to the patio to warn everyone.
-"There is a mousetrap at home!". The chicken that was cackling and digging says: "excuse me, Mr. Mouse, I understand that it is a big problem for you, but it does not hurt me at all."
So, the rodent went to the lamb and he says the same thing: "Excuse me Mr. Mouse, but I don't think I can do more than ask for you in my prayers." The mouse went to the cow and she said: "But am I in danger? I think not!" said the cow. The mouse returned to the house, worried and dejected to face the farmer's mousetrap.
That night a great noise was heard like that of the mousetrap catching its victim, the woman ran to see what she had caught. In the dark she did not see that the mousetrap caught the tail of a poisonous snake. The speedy snake bit the woman, the farmer immediately took her to the hospital, she came back with a high fever.
The farmer to comfort her prepared a nutritious soup, grabbed the knife and went to find the main ingredient: the chicken; Since the woman did not get better, friends and neighbors went to visit them, the farmer killed the lamb to feed them, the woman did not get better and died. And in the end, the husband sold the cow to the slaughterhouse to cover the funeral expenses.
The next time someone tells you about their problem and you think that it doesn't affect you because it's not yours and you don't pay attention to it, think twice, “he who doesn't live to serve, doesn't serve to live”.
The world is not going badly because of the wickedness of the bad, but because of the apathy of the good. So when someone needs you for their problems, give them your hand or give them a word of encouragement. May you never lack empathy! Remember it very well, EMPATHY.
@stormydaycuddle 😆😆
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces Between stars - on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home To scare myself with my own desert places. - Desert Places, Robert Frost
@MissAdventurous you're the best and I mean that. I’m having trouble thinking of anyone more awesome. Ty! Hugs.
@stormydaycuddle -- can we just read each other poetry bahaha 😂😂 that's a beautiful pick for a quote.
And frankly, I'm blessed to have gotten to meet you through here, I appreciate our friendship ❤️
Alexander The he Great..
Alexander III was 20 years old when he ascended to the throne of Macedonia following the assassination of his father. Over the next 12 years he would lead his armies in an historically unparalleled series of victories and conquests that would extend his empire across more than two million square miles—from northern Greece to western India to Egypt. In the wake of Alexander’s army came Hellenistic culture, and with his conquests and the cultural exchanges that followed, he knitted the Western world together more than any person before him and perhaps more than any person since. History remembers him as Alexander the Great.
In June 323 B.C., Alexander was in Babylon, residing at the palace of Nebuchadnezzar, where he was planning an invasion of Arabia. There he fell gravely ill. Over the next twelve days his condition steadily deteriorated. Despite the best medical care available at the time, Alexander could not be saved. On June 11, he died. He was 32 years old.
The cause of Alexander’s death is one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of ancient history. There are certainly no shortage of theories—ranging from a wide variety of infectious diseases, to an inherited genetic disorder, to the effects of battle wounds and/or overdrinking, to poisoning. The debate continues. And it evidently will not be resolved by recourse to an examination of Alexander’s remains, because their location is also one of ancient history’s greatest unsolved mysteries.
After his death Alexander’s body was placed inside a gold sarcophagus filled with honey, which was itself placed inside a gold casket. The body was being transported to Macedon for entombment when one of the rivals to the throne intercepted the procession and diverted it to Egypt. There Alexander was entombed, first in Memphis, then later in Alexandria. There are accounts of Roman emperors visiting the tomb in Alexandria (Caligula supposedly stole and wore Alexander’s breastplate), but its exact location has since been lost to history. For hundreds of years archeologists, historians, and adventurers have being trying to locate the tomb. The Egyptian government has financed nearly 150 official search attempts. One of the most intriguing recent theories is that Alexander’s body was taken from Alexandria in 828 A.D. by Venetian merchants who mistook it for the body of St. Mark, and that the sarcophagus in the Basilica Cathedral Patriarcale di San Marco in Venice holds the body not of St. Mark, but of Alexander the Great. But for now at least, Alexander’s present whereabouts, like his cause of death, must be regarded as unknown.
Alexander’s death threw his vast empire into turmoil. His young wife Roxana was pregnant, but he had no children born before his death and he had named no heir. Some of Alexander’s generals pledged their loyalty to the unborn child (provided it was a son), but others claimed for themselves the right to rule or threw their support to others who did. Forty years of war followed as the factions battled for power. During that era of violent power struggles, Roxana and her 14-year-old son Alexander IV were murdered. The warfare finally ended with the empire divided into four parts, each under the control of separate claimants to the throne.
Alexander the Great died in Babylon on June 11, 323 B.C.
The image is the 1886 painting “The Death of Alexander” by German artist Karl von Piloty.
The following scary story, 'The Death Sign,' was collected in Connemara by Jane Wilde in 1888.
'A woman was out one day looking after her sheep in the valley, and coming by a little stream she sat down to rest, when suddenly she seemed to hear the sound of low music, and turning round, beheld at some distance a crowd of people dancing and making merry.
And she grew afraid and turned her head away not to see them. Then close by her stood a young man, pale and strange looking, and she beheld him with fear.
“Who are you?” she said at last; “and why do you stand beside me?”
“You ought to know me,” he replied, “for I belong to this place; but make haste now and come away, or evil will befall you.”
Then she stood up and was going away with him, when the crowd left off their dancing and ran towards them crying—
“Come back; come back; come back!”
“Don’t stop; don’t listen,” said the young man, “but follow me.”
Then they both began to run, and ran on until they reached a hillock.
“Now we are safe,” said he; “they can’t harm us here.” And when they stopped he said to her again, “Look me in the face and say if you know me now?”
“No,” she answered, “you are a stranger to me.”
“Look again,” he said, “look me straight in the face and you will know me.”
Then she looked, and knew instantly that he was a man who had been drowned the year before in the dark winter time, and the waves had never cast up his body on the shore. And she threw up her arms and cried aloud—
“Have you news of my child? Have you seen her, my fair-haired girl, that was stolen from me this day seven years. Will she come back to me never no more?”
“I have seen her,” said the man, “but she will never come back, never more, for she has eaten of the fairy food and must now stay with the spirits under the sea, for she belongs to them body and soul.
But go home now, for it is late, and evil is near you; and perhaps you will meet her sooner than you think.”
Then as the women turned her face homeward, the man disappeared and she saw him no more.
When at last she reached the threshold of her house a fear and trembling came on her, and she called to her husband that some one stood in the doorway and she could not pass.
And with that she fell down on the threshold on her face, but spake no word more. And when they lifted her up she was dead.'
@MissAdventurous thought I was going to come a little too morbid then I read yours...awesome BTW.
“But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued.
Out- out are the lights- out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm.” ― Edgar Allan Poe
@stormydaycuddle I have a very dark sense of humor. Bahaha.
Most of us have been raised to believe that the road to a happy life is paved with pleasure, and that the pursuit of pleasure is the path to fulfillment. But as we grow up, we begin to realize that life is not always easy or pleasurable. In fact, much of it is difficult and painful. We all experience loss, disappointment, illness, aging, and eventually death. We encounter stress, anxiety, and fear. We suffer from the slings and arrows of everyday life.
And yet, we continue to cling to the idea that happiness is found in pleasure and the avoidance of pain. We try to avoid our painful experiences by numbing ourselves with drugs or alcohol, distracting ourselves with TV or social media, or obsessing over our work or our relationships. But the more we try to avoid the basic reality that all human life involves pain, the more we are likely to struggle with that pain when it arises, thereby creating even more suffering.
The truth is that happiness is not found in the avoidance of pain, but in the willingness to face and accept our pain. It is in the willingness to experience our painful thoughts and feelings, to acknowledge them without judgment, and to take action in line with our values and goals. It is in the willingness to be present in the moment, to connect with our senses and our environment, and to find joy and meaning in the simple things in life. ~Russ Harris
(Art: Photograph by Pierre Jamet)
Speaking of courage..
"You run ahead? Are you doing it as a shepherd? Or as an exception? A third case would be as a fugitive. First question of conscience.
Are you genuine? Or merely an actor? A representative? Or that which is represented? In the end, perhaps you are merely a copy of an actor. Second question of conscience.
Are you one who looks on? Or one who lends a hand? Or one who looks away and walks off? Third question of conscience.
Do you want to walk along? Or walk ahead? Or walk by yourself? One must know what one wants and that one wants. Fourth question of conscience."
-Nietzsche
Post Modernity FOR THE WIN. I know some people dislike Nietzsche and mostly I do too but I am a sucker for philosophy and Post Modernity being my favorite.
(philosophy....my love language....after sarcasm @stormydaycuddle)
Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions, seems still to have the power of elevating his soul from earth.
Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery, and be overwhelmed by disappointments; yet, when he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit that has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.
Sometimes some days I just feel at the end of my rope there’s been so many times where I thought it was my last. I wish I had a two way ticket to go back home but instead I have a one-way ticket to my final destination.  (I wrote this)
On this day 544 years ago one of the most famous people in history was born. Though you don't know her name, you definitely know her face.
Here is the story of the woman with the world's most famous smile, Lisa Gherardini, who never even saw her own portrait...
Lisa Gherardini was born in the Republic of Florence on 15th June, 1479.
She came from an old and aristocratic Florentine family which, though well off, wasn't quite as wealthy or influential as it used to be.
The Gherardinis made money from farms they owned around the city. She was the eldest of seven children, and the family moved around Florence several times, eventually settling near the famous Santa Croce.
Here the family may have befriended Piero da Vinci, the father of Leonardo. In 1495 Lisa married a cloth merchant called Francesco del Giocondo. So she became Lisa del Giocondo — hence the Mona Lisa is known as La Gioconda in Italy and La Joconde in France.
He had money, she had a noble name, and together they lived a comfortable middle class life. Lisa had five children with Francesco, and she also raised his son from a previous marriage.
In 1503 they moved out of an apartment and into their own house on the Via della Stufa; Francesco had become part of Florence's government and was making more money. It was in this year, 1503, that Francesco commissioned a portrait of his wife, perhaps to celebrate moving into their new home.
And he commissioned none other than Leonardo da Vinci, who had just returned to Florence from Milan (via Venice) after nearly twenty years away. The 16th century biographer Giorgio Vasari said Leonardo "lingered over it for four years" before leaving the painting unfinished.
He had been commissioned to create a large painting in Florence's town hall, the Palazzo del Vecchio, and so his attention turned to that. But Leonardo never completed that project either.
And when he returned to Milan in 1508, and thereafter went to France to work for King Francis I, he took the portrait of Lisa del Giocondo with him.
He probably continued working on it until his death in France in 1519. So the subject of the most famous portrait in history never even saw it.
The Mona Lisa was kept at the Palace of Fontainebleau and then at Versailles by the French monarchy.
Until 1797, after the Revolution, when it was moved to the Louvre — where it has remained ever since.
. But back to Florence, where Francesco was in trouble. He was a supporter of the Medici family (who had been exiled in 1494) and was imprisoned in 1512 amid political tensions.
Only to be released later that year when the Medicis returned and took control of the city again. In 1537 Francesco died, and though Lisa received enough from his will to support herself she entered the (now abandoned) Convent of Sant'Orsola, where one of her daughters was already a nun.
And that is where she died in 1542, at the age of 63. So that's a very brief biography of Lisa del Giocondo, born on this day 544 years ago.
Little could she or Francesco have known that her face (and smile) would become perhaps the most famous face in history, known all around the world nearly five centuries after her death.