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Anna. UK I enjoy reading lesbian!Caroline Bingley head-canons so please keep sending them to me.


Fall 2014 fashion: Scout’s ham costume from To Kill A Mockingbird


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— 1 day ago with 87729 notes


"Tell me," he said, "what is this thing about time? Why is it better to be late than early? People are always saying, we must wait, we must wait. What are they waiting for?"

"Well," I said, feeling myself being led by Giovanni into deep and dangerous water, "I guess people wait in order to make sure of what they feel."

"In order to make sure!… It’s clear that you are a true philosopher.” He pointed a finger at my heart. “And when you have waited—has it made you sure?”

Giovanni’s Room, by James Baldwin

— 1 day ago with 2 notes
#literature  #james baldwin 


Filmmaker Steve McQueen returns to his fine art beginnings with an exhibition and his first new film since “12 Years A Slave”.

Made using reworked Super-8 footage of a young boy in Grenada shot by Dutch cinematographer Robby Miller. The previously unused footage was made during a trip McQueen made to Grenada in 2001. There, McQueen came across the young man we briefly come to know in the film “Ashes”, the name the of film’s protagonist.

Recognizing a quality in him that translated beautifully onto the screen, McQueen had wanted to cast Ashes in the project he was working on there but was unable to do so. Instead, he asked Miller to take footage of the young man.When McQueen returned to the island in 2009, he learned of Ashes’ murder. Shaken by this, McQueen’s latest short film and exhibition are an intimate ode to the effervescence of youth and the tragic death of a young man that embodied this vivacity so well.

Steve McQueen: Ashes is currently on view at the Thomas Dane Gallery, London until 15th November.

— 1 day ago with 1279 notes
#steve mcqueen  #art 

The world is full of women
who’d tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they’d say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I’ve a choice
of how, and I’ll take the money.

I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it’s all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything’s for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can’t. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape’s been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there’s only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it’s the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretence
that I can’t hear them.
And I can’t, because I’m after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don’t let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I’ll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That’s what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.

Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They’d like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look—my feet don’t hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I’m rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I’m not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you’ll burn.

margaret atwood, helen of troy does countertop dancing (via ilvalentinos)

(via thymoss)

— 1 day ago with 300 notes
#margaret atwood  #poetry  #literature 


#ShakespeareSunday - TIME

Richard II (Act 5, Scene 5)

Ha, ha! keep time: how sour sweet music is,
When time is broke and no proportion kept!
So is it in the music of men’s lives.
And here have I the daintiness of ear
To cheque time broke in a disorder’d string;
But for the concord of my state and time
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;
For now hath time made me his numbering clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar
Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial’s point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is
Are clamorous groans, which strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans
Show minutes, times, and hours: but my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke’s proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o’ the clock.
This music mads me; let it sound no more;
For though it have holp madmen to their wits,
In me it seems it will make wise men mad.
Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!
For ‘tis a sign of love; and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.

Follow us on Twitter HollowCrownFans

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— 1 week ago with 66 notes
#richard ii  #ben whishaw 


sex is a lot like the Iliad. you thrust spears, you get constant long winded metaphors about lions, zeus is there

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— 1 week ago with 8153 notes
thehighwarlockofbrooklyn asked: sorry to be direct but because your literature recs and classical knowledge are both absolutely top notch - a) what's your favourite translation of the bacchae and b) can I find it online?



the bacchae, okay. i can’t choose one—there are three i like, for different reasons.

  • woodruff’s bacchae is a good performance text: succinct and colloquial—it finds an equivalent modern idiom rather than an awkward literal translation—elevated where it needs to be, lucid and powerful. i’ve got no online source for it but it’s cheap to buy.

  • the translation in vellacott’s edition of euripides (medea and other plays) is several decades old but still sounds modern and spare and punchy, faithful but not slavish to the original. i’ve only got a low-res pdf, uploaded here, because i own it in print—i use it most often for quick reference. 

  • gibbons’ bakkhai (pdf) is my favourite translation to read: gibbons is a poet, and his translation—mostly free iambic meter, with a stricter pentameter for narrative parts and varying rhythm for dialogue and choral odes—is loose and vivid and full of energy, and sometimes strays a distance from the literal meaning. segal’s introduction, which begins “dionysus is the god of letting go…” is v. good and comprehensive on the divine & religious context, the allusions & references, the thematic & symbolic strands of the play itself, &c. (also—the extant text of the bacchae is corrupt: there’s some fifty lines marred by lacunae, manuscript gaps. most translations just render the spaces as ellipses but segal & gibbons have tried to extensively reconstruct those lines in an appendix, and it’s an interesting read.) 

— 1 week ago with 142 notes
#literature  #classics  #ffr 

Gillian Anderson as Blanche DuBois.

(Source: andersondaily, via harrietvane)

— 1 week ago with 1599 notes
#gillian anderson 


fox mulder: *points to unknown lifeform* thats an alien

government: no… you don’t undesrtand,… that’s not an alien you are wrong… pleas,e… you cnanot say this fake thign,

fox mulder: lov this alien

(via ilusti)

— 1 week ago with 8983 notes