Your self-love passes through 100 hearts

amy-pence-brownAmy Pence Brown, Single of the Day





Just four minutes to learn how much love surrounds you:

Il cervello da dentro

Cesare_MusattiCesare Musatti, 21.9.1897 – 21.3.1989, Single of the Day


“L’analista devessere presente al malato, ma non troppo”

“C’è una predisposizione costituzionale a tutto, quindi anche alla nevrosi”

Buon Compleanno, Signor Musatti!




A space of time

Marcin_Rusak_2.width-300Marcin Rusak, Single of the Day





“It is almost impossible to get lost these days. It would take a lot of effort to experience this luxury”

WHAT IS LUXURY…for YOU? At V&A Museum, until September 27th. Take the luxury to see it.











Time for Yourself,
Marcin Rusak in collaboration with Iona Inglesby, 2013

In a world where having more time and extra space are the most sought-after luxuries of all, perhaps the ultimate treat would be to stop the clock and simply lose yourself for a while. That’s Marcin Rusak’s take on the theme. He has designed what looks like an executive survival kit for getting lost: a compass that sends you off in random directions, a dial-less watch and a blanket to keep you warm on your journey towards ascetic enlightenment. It suggests that the ultimate luxury would be to escape from a world where possessing any of these objects matters at all.

More words against war

p10sassoonGETTY  Siegfried Sassoon, 8.9.1886-1.9.1967, Single of the Day




Happy Birthday, Mr. Sassoon, with your poems we know what’s inside war.


You love us when we’re heroes, home on leave,

Or wounded in a mentionable place.

You worship decorations; you believe

That chivalry redeems the war’s disgrace.

You make us shells. You listen with delight,

By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled.

You crown our distant ardours while we fight,

And mourn our laurelled memories when we’re killed.

You can’t believe that British troops “retire”

When hell’s last horror breaks them, and they run,

Trampling the terrible corpses—blind with blood.

O German mother dreaming by the fire,

While you are knitting socks to send your son

His face is trodden deeper in the mud.


Gloria alle donne

Ci amate quando diventiamo eroi, a casa in licenza
O feriti in un luogo menzionabile.
Voi decorazione di culto; voi credete
Che la cavalleria redima le atrocità della guerra.
Ci trasformate in granate. Ascoltate con delizia,
Di racconti di sporcizia e pericolo con affetto entusiasta.
Esaltate i nostri lontani fervori mentre combattiamo,
E piangete il nostro ricordo di eroi, quando veniamo uccisi.
Non potete credere che le truppe inglesi possano ’ritirarsi’
Quando l’ultimo orrore infernale le abbatte, e corrono,
Calpestando quei corpi sfigurati – sporcati di sangue.
O madre tedesca che sogni accanto al fuoco,
Mentre lavori a maglia le calze che invierai a tuo figlio,
Il suo volto è calpestato sempre più in fondo nel fango.