Not To Be A Fangirl But I Keep Those Preciously In My Treasure Box For Over A Decade

Joyeux 14 juillet ! Look who I found…..

Posting this here for everyone!!

I have a folder called Time is a Flat Circle in which I collect evidence of humanity. Here is most of them.

In any other show I'd be pretty mad about a character just blatantly explaining a visual metaphor but silvers' "james flint controls the weather based on how he feels about me personally" is like the funniest possible dialogue so it gets a pass

im trying to articulate how heart-wrenching it is that jesse gets punished for being vulnerable and open all the way through the series but i think it’s best encapsulated by the fact that hank forces jesse to film a confession tape where jesse has to relive the trauma of shooting gale and todd killing drew sharp, crying and in clear mental anguish the entire time, and that experience accomplishes literally nothing in the end. the tape doesn’t protect him or get anyone responsible convicted or punished. hank still doesn’t see him as anything more than a resource, a disposable junkie, even as jesse’s sitting on his couch sobbing. the neo-nazis find the tape and sit around literally mocking this footage after they enslave jesse, laughing at his display of emotion. he’s constantly exploited and punished for being open about his feelings. i guess that’s why its so effective and beautiful that jesse doesn’t ever let this stop him from continuing to show emotion. why it feels so cathartic when he sobs and screams as he speeds away from the compound: they didn’t take that part of him away from him. he was laughed at, tortured, used as a bargaining chip, but he still cries and shows his cards and is a messy, emotional human all the way to the very end. they could’ve ended el camino with the shot of him driving into alaska with that kind of peaceful, but not super emotive expression, but they didn’t. they ended with him looking over and imagining jane with him. one final show of his love and emotions and how it has caused him suffering and pain, but didn’t ever break him. 

It’s not you I’ve lost, but the world.

a kind of loss (Ingeborg Bachmann), variations on the word love (Margaret Atwood), i am the brother of xx (Fleur Jaeggy), don’t go far off, not even for a day (Pablo Neruda), recreation (Audre Lorde), wuthering heights (Emily Brontë), i carry your heart with me (e. e. cummings)

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i would have said estj but on personality database he's typed intj and one of the comments said he was istp and now i am in Doubt & Despair

i need to know fouché mbti or i'll probably die ig

Cersei & Qyburn’s scene | 5x10 “Mother’s Mercy” Script

Illustrations from Marat’s Recherches physiques sur le Feu, 1780

Victor Hugo on Talleyrand's death

For @empirearchives who was interested, here's a translation of Victor Hugo's text about Talleyrand's death. My thanks to @microcosme11 for her help <33

Choses Vues, Victor Hugo

1838

Talleyrand

19th of May

In the Rue St-Florentin, there is a palace and a sewer.

The palace, with its noble, rich, and dull architecture, was long called "Hôtel de l'Infuntado"; today, we read on its front door: Hôtel Talleyrand. During the fourty years he lived on this street, the last host of this palace might never have set eyes on this sewer.

He was a stranged, feared, and considerable character: his name was Charles-Maurice de Périgord; he was noble as Machiavel, a priest like Gondi, defrocked like Fouché, witty as Voltaire, and lame as the devil. One could say that everything limped with him: the nobility which he had put to the service of the republic, the priesthood he had dragged on the Champ-de-Mars then threw down the drain, the marriage he had broken by twenty scandals and by a voluntary separation, the wit he dishonoured through vileness. This man, nevertheless, had grandeur.

The splendours of both regimes were mixed together inside of him: he was prince of the old kingdom of France, and prince of the French Empire.

For thirty years, from the depth of his palace, from the depth of his mind, he had just about led Europe. He had let the revolution call him "tu", and had smiled at it, ironically of course; but it had not noticed. He had approached, known, observed, pierced, stirred, upturned, delved into, mocked, intellectually fertilized all the men of his era, all the ideas of his century, and there had been a few minutes in his life when, holding in his hand the four or five fearsome threads that moved the civilized universe, he had had for a puppet Napoleon the First, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation. Such was the game this man played.

After the Revolution of July, that old race, whose grand chambellan he was, having fallen, he found himself standing on one foot and told the people of 1830, sitting, bare-armed, on a pile of cobbles: Make me your ambassador.

He had received Mirabeau's last confession and Thiers' first confidence. He had said himself he was a great poet and had made a trilogy in three dynasties: Act I, Buonaparte's Empire; Act 2, The House of Bourbon; Act 3, The House of Orleans.

He had done all of this in his palace, and, in this palace, like a spider in its web, he had attracted into it and taken successively heroes, thinkers, great men, conquerors, kings, princes, emperors, Bonaparte, Sieyès, Mme de Staël, Chateaubriand, Benjamin Constant, Alexander of Russia, Wilhelm of Prussia, Francis of Austria, Louis XVIII, Louis-Philippe, all the golden, shiny flies who buzzed in the history of those last fourty years. The whole sparkling swarm, fascinated by this man's deep eye, had successively passed under the dark door that bore, written on its architrave: Hôtel Talleyrand.

Well, the day before yesterday, 17 March, 1838, that man died. Doctors came and embalmed the corpse. For this, like the Egyptians, they first withdrew the bowels from the belly and the brain from the skull. Once done, after they had transformed the prince de Talleyrand into a mummy, and nailed this mummy in a white satin-lined coffin, they withdrew, leaving upon a table the brain, that brain which thought so many things, inspired so many men, built so many edifices, led two revolutions, fooled twenty kings, contained the world.

Once the doctors were gone, a valet entered, he saw what they had left. Hold on! they forgot this. What to do ? He remembered that there was a sewer in the street, he went there, and threw that brain into this sewer.

Finis rerum.