– photographs and messages from inside the Sausurrean Bar –

Posts Tagged: ruins

Posts Tagged ‘ruins’

Thursday, March 8th, 2018

Château de Peyrepertuse

Monday, February 5th, 2018

Roman Ruins in the Rain, Autun

Thursday, February 1st, 2018

Théâtre Romain, Autun

Sunday, January 14th, 2018

Notre-Dame de Cîteaux

Sunday, December 17th, 2017

The Beauty of Decay

Sunday, April 27th, 2014

Into the Darkness, Into the Forest


The towers is dark
But they did give you a lantern
May it do you much good!


Tuesday, November 12th, 2013

We all have our ruins

We all have our ruins

Thursday, November 7th, 2013

In the Catacombs

In the Catacombs

Friday, November 1st, 2013

The World Below

The World Below

The World Below the ruins of the (Roman) Imperial Baths (Kaisertherme) in Trier, Germany, to be precise – the largest surviving* Roman baths outside of Rome.

The World Above

The World Above

Yes, it’s a twofer! This is what the Imperial Baths look like in The World Above.

* For the definition of ‘surviving’ that means outlines and ruins and broken stones and zero usability, anyway.

Wednesday, August 8th, 2012

Dans la Ruine de Château de Vieux-Windstein

Friday, April 22nd, 2011

I wish that could be me.

For five centuries the Colosseum nourished artists and writers, but it was precisely the features which conflicted with the original ‘truth’ of the Colosseum which triggered their creativity. The black Martyrs’ Cross, on whose steps sat Daisy Miller, Chateaubriand and Pauline de Beaumont. Moonlit solitude, and the owl’s cry heard by Byron. The spectral smoke which drifted away to reveal Cellini’s demons, Goethe’s geometries and Poe’s dizzying vortex of Eld. The hermit who grew his hay; William Beckford’s reverie in the cypresses; and Deakin’s Christ’s Thorn. All have gone, and the Colosseum is extinct. Today it is the most monumental bathos in Europe: a bald, dead and bare circle of stones. There are no shadows, no sands, no echoes and if a single flower blooms in a crevice it is sprayed with weed-killer. The monument is open to the public from nine-thirty a.m. to six p.m., when the gates are locked. At nightfall one day in the 1820s Stendhal watched an Englishman ride his horse through the deserted arena. I wish that could be me.

Woodward, Christopher. In Ruins. London: Vintage, 2001. page 30f.

Yes, once I make it to the colosseum, that photo is totally getting replaced. Still – different ruin, same phenomenon.