"Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air.
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself—
Yea, all which it inherit—shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vexed.
Bear with my weakness. My old brain is troubled.
Be not disturbed with my infirmity.
If you be pleased, retire into my cell
And there repose. A turn or two I’ll walk
To still my beating mind.”
-The Tempest
Wichita National Forest, Oklahoma. 1908
The Dreamer, Caspar David Friederic. 1840
Fly Stamp Collection, chromogenic print, Gabriel Orozco. 2010


Besides my other numerous circle of acquaintances I have one more intimate confidant-my melancholy. In the midst of my joy, in the midst of my work, she waves to me, calls me to one side, even though physically I stay put. My melancholy is the most faithful mistress I have known, what wonder, then, that I love her in return.

-Søren Kierkegaard

Auguste Rodin, by Gertrude Käsebier. 1905
Allegory of Winter, Remedios Varo. 1948
From “Geografia general y compendio historico del estado de Antioquia en Colombia,” 1885. (British Library)