Saint Lucy was martyred for her Christianity by having her eyes gauged out. Sometimes her eyes are shown on a plate like scrambled eggs, as in these examples. Today’s entry, however, shows one of the weirdest representations of the saint.
Francesco del Cossa, Saint Lucy(detail), c. 1473/1474, tempera on panel. National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.
“The fear did not leave Lebedev from that moment. And he tried to escape the fear in the city. The walls of the house stifled him, did not save him from fear, while he knew the city like no one else and loved it like no one else. And with the obsessiveness of an explorer he began showing it to me. We went off on long excursions on the Petrograd side, along Vasilyevsky Island, down the canals, to the Summer Gardens, the Neva, the Palace Embankment, I saw the house of the Queen of Spades, the English Embankment…. It was a strange feeling, sometimes very hard. That was not how you love art or architecture. That was how you love someone’s soul, living and elusive.”—Irina Kichanova on her husband’s response to his expected persecution, from Simon Volkov’s St. Petersburg: A Cultural History
Woody Harrelson:I was on my bus, and on my bus I have a yoga swing. Jennifer comes on, and she goes, 'Hi, Woody, I'm J—is that a sex swing?' Her first sentence to me.
Josh Hutcherson:When I got cast, she called me up for one of those five-minute 'Excited to work with you, blah, blah, blah' things. The conversation started with her saying, 'Think about a catheter going in – ouch!' and then turns into a 45-minute rant about zombies and the apocalypse.
Zoë Kravitz:I'd met her a few times, and she was like, 'You should come over and we'll hang out.' So I go over to her apartment, and she opens the door in a towel. She's like, 'Come in, sorry, you're early, I was about to shower.' And she drops her towel and gets in the shower, and starts shaving her legs, totally naked. She was like, 'Are we here yet? Is this OK?' And I was like, 'I guess we're there!'
The modern biographers worry “how far it went,” their tender friendship. They wonder just what it means when he writes he thinks of her constantly, his guardian angel, beloved friend. The modern biographers ask the rude, irrelevant question of our age, as if the event of two bodies meshing together establishes the degree of love, forgetting how softly Eros walked in the nineteenth century, how a hand held overlong or a gaze anchored in someone’s eyes could unseat a heart, and nuances of address, not known in our egalitarian language could make the redolent air tremble and shimmer with the heat of possibility. Each time I hear the Intermezzi, sad and lavish in their tenderness, I imagine the two of them sitting in a garden among late-blooming roses and dark cascades of leaves, letting the landscape speak for them, leaving nothing to overhear.
A lot of them seem to be personally affronted by the fact that Shakespeare, by all accounts, was a pretty boring guy—they have a deep-seated need to believe that interesting literature must have been written by someone more interesting. These are your Marlovians in particular, despite the fact that Marlowe spent the majority of Shakespeare’s career being dead from being stabbed in the face. Also your Queen Elizabeth authorship people. The crazier among them think there’s been some kind of huge cover-up to keep the truth hidden. Why don’t you academics want us to know the truth, they scream, as if the military-academic industrial complex has a secret warehouse somewhere full of copies of HAMLET, BY KIT MARLOWE, WITH A FOREWORD BY QUEEN ELIZABETH. We would address their concerns, they say, if we weren’t covering up the truth, whereas in fact we don’t address their concerns because their concerns are stupid and we have papers to grade and shit to do.