This gallery contains 5 photos.
Veronica Lake (November 14, 1922 – July 7, 1973) was a beautiful film actress.
Lake won both popular and critical acclaim, most notably for her role in Sullivan’s Travels and for her femme fatale roles in film noir with Alan Ladd, during the 1940s. She was also well known for her peek-a-boo hairstyle.
By the late 1940s, Lake’s career had begun to decline in part due to her struggles with mental illness and alcoholism. She made only one film in the 1950s but appeared in several guest-starring roles on television.
She returned to the screen in 1966 with a role in the film Footsteps In the Snow, but the role failed to revitalize her career.
The nature keep me wondering about the possibilities of creation and beauty of creation. Initially I thought that this is some kind of pink flower but after a close look I saw a small yellow flower and realized that it is actually pink color leaves. I must say I was delighted to see this plant.
Reblogged from: Nature classics : Pink leaves.
Alda Merini (Milan, March 21, 1931 – November 1, 2009) started her poetic career when she was really young and soon she gained the attention and the admiration of many famous Italian writers, like Giorgio Manganelli, Salvatore Quasimodo and Pier Paolo Pasolini. Her intense, passionate and mystic writing style was influenced especially by the Bohemian-Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke. Her verses are mainly about her long and dramatic hospitalization in mental home (since 1964 to the late 1970s), and the “otherness” of madness in the creative expression. One of her masterpieces is L’altra verità. Diario di una diversa (“The other truth. Diary of a dropout”), Scheiwiller, 1986.
In 1996 Alda Merini was proposed by the “Académie Francaise” for the Nobel Prize in Literature. She received the prize of the Italian Republic in the area of poetry.
The day of her death, the President of the Italian Republic, Giorgio Napolitano, called her an “inspired and limpid poetic voice.”
A scrawl drawn in the sky exaggerates in storm;
an ambitious breath wants us to believe to be a hurricane;
sounds by the old bagpipes, as an orchestra,
they are glued on the Harlequin’s multicolored dress…
cicadas frozen come and go
between the lowest F
and the highest B,
like a dirge,
like a song at random,
as an exorcism against the water and wind.
Meanwhile, distressed and almost anemic,
the last stroke from the bell tower arrives
to proclaim died the new day.