Gregory Peck
perhaps one of the best looking men to have ever existed
submitted a collection of short stories and poetry to a competition.
browse through some of the other applicants.
see my old Creative Writing lecturer.
proceed to cry.
Vincent van Gogh, Treurende Oude Man (aan de rand van de eeuwigheid)
I wrote this when I was in year 12. it was a letter to someone and it still really means a lot to me. so, Tumblr, this is what I write when I’m not worried about form or characters or plots or themes. this is what I write when I’m feeling.
Benedict Cumberbatch — Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness, -
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
To thy high requiem become a sod.Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ‘tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?(image)
actually crying.
(Source: lavielivre, via nerdbynature)
ಠ_ಠ
(Source: beledbyyourdreamsandhopes, via sailors-delight)
“I have found that almost everything ever written about love to be true. Shakespeare said, “Journeys end in lovers’ meeting.” What an extraordinary thought. Personally, I have not experienced anything remotely close to that but I’m more than willing to believe Shakespeare had. I suppose I think about love more than anyone really should. I’m constantly amazed by its sheer power to alter and define our lives. It was Shakespeare who also said, “Love is blind.” Now, that is something I know to be true. For some, quite inexplicably, love fades. For others, love is simply lost. But then, of course, love can also be found. Even if just for the night. And then there’s another kind of love. The cruelest one. The one that almost kills its victims. It’s called unrequited love. Of that, I am an expert. Most love stories are about people who fall in love with each other. But what about the rest of us? What about our stories? Those of us who fall in love alone. We are the victims of the one-sided affair. We are the cursed of the loved ones. We are the unloved ones. The walking wounded. The handicapped without the advantage of a great parking space. Yes, you are looking at one such individual. And I have willingly loved that man for over three miserable years. The absolute worst years of my life. The worst Christmases, the worst birthdays. New Year’s Eves brought in by tears and Valium. These years I’ve been in love have been the darkest days of my life all because I’m cursed by being in love with a man who does not, and will not, love me back. Oh, God, just the sight of him. Heart pounding, throat thickening, absolutely can’t swallow. All the usual symptoms.”
now watching: The Holiday
(via hadyourshot)
I want to be Nigella Lawson. because reasons.
(Source: , via optimisticpessimism)
I would like to have a high-tea sometime, in a lovely place like in this photo, where everybody dresses up like they’re from the 50s and we dance and laugh and enjoy each other. I’d really like that.
(Source: beezy-baby, via 2028miles)
