en bateau

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[franny-squalor-glass]

David Foster Wallace Letters & Manuscript 

[doctorsax]

You asked me once how poems informed me… And you asked whether we, us, depended on the game, to even be. Baby? Remember? Remember the ocean? Our dawn ocean, that we loved? We loved it because it was like us, Faye. The ocean was obvious. We were looking at something obvious, the whole time. Oceans are only oceans when they move… Waves are what keep oceans from just being very big puddles. Oceans are just their waves. And every wave in the ocean is finally going to meet what it moves toward, and break. The whole thing we looked at, the whole time you asked, was obvious. It was obvious and a poem because it was us. See things like that, Faye. Your own face, moving into expression. A wave, breaking on a rock, giving up its shape in a gesture that expresses that shape. See?

David Foster Wallace, Little Expressionless Animals (via doctorsax)

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[vanityfairground]

[the-hated-salford-ensemble-deac]

The Smiths 1984

[splendidly]

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Romola Garai

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Ben Whishaw

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The Hour, BBC

[savagegrace]

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Ben Whishaw

[loki-stole-my-cookies]

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Ben Whishaw

[gregorypecks-deactivated2014032]

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Laurence Olivier

[alifefullofyou]

Laurence Olivier as Michael Ingolby in Fire Over England (1937)

[barcarole]

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Laurence Olivier

[blueharp]

[vanityfairground]

Ben Whishaw

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Twenty One Love Poems by Adrienne Rich

XV  If I lay on that beach with you  white, empty, pure green water warmed by the Gulf Stream and lying on that beach we could not stay because the wind drove fine sand against us  as if it were against us if we tried to withstand it and we failed -  if we drove to another place to sleep in each other's arms and the beds were narrow like prisoners' cots and we were tired and did not sleep together and this was what we found, so this is what we did -  was the failure ours? If I cling to circumstances I could feel not responsible. Only she who says she did not choose, is the loser in the end.

[vanityfairground]

Rufus & Martha Wainwright