brotherdearest - summer, you're a boneyard
summer, you're a boneyard

repository of things i love / about

128 posts

Quiero Un Ricardo

quiero un ricardo

Quiero Un Ricardo

A Richard... turned out a bit more anime I wanted, but well.

I haven't even watched the movie yet, so I wasn't sure of what was I doing. He's wearing one of those early Fire Emblem capes just because I felt like it.

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More Posts from Brotherdearest

1 year ago

“and even if the City falls and one of us survives he will carry the City inside him on the roads of exile he will be the City”

— Zbigniew Herbert, from “Report from a Besieged City,” trans. Czeslaw Milosz  (via colbertesque)


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1 year ago
Henry Was Eighteen When We Met, And I Was Queen Of France. He Came Down From The North To Paris With
Henry Was Eighteen When We Met, And I Was Queen Of France. He Came Down From The North To Paris With
Henry Was Eighteen When We Met, And I Was Queen Of France. He Came Down From The North To Paris With
Henry Was Eighteen When We Met, And I Was Queen Of France. He Came Down From The North To Paris With
Henry Was Eighteen When We Met, And I Was Queen Of France. He Came Down From The North To Paris With
Henry Was Eighteen When We Met, And I Was Queen Of France. He Came Down From The North To Paris With
Henry Was Eighteen When We Met, And I Was Queen Of France. He Came Down From The North To Paris With
Henry Was Eighteen When We Met, And I Was Queen Of France. He Came Down From The North To Paris With
Henry Was Eighteen When We Met, And I Was Queen Of France. He Came Down From The North To Paris With

Henry was eighteen when we met, and I was queen of France. He came down from the north to Paris with a mind like Aristotle’s and a form like mortal sin. We shattered the Commandments on the spot.

The Lion in Winter, dir. Anthony Harvey (1968), based on the play by James Goldman


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1 year ago

“It is the mother’s not the lover’s lust that rots the mind. It is that which condemns the tragic character to his walking death. It is Jocasta, not Juliet, who dwells in the inner chamber. It is is Gertrude, not the silly Ophelia, who sends Hamlet to his madness. The heart of tragedy does not lie in stealing or taking away. Any feather-pated girl can steal a heart. It lies in giving, in putting on, in adding, in smothering without the pillows. Desdemona robbed of life or honour is nothing to a Mordred, robbed of himself–his soul stolen, overlaid, wizened, while the mother-character lives in triumph, superfluously and with stifling love endowed on him, seemingly innocent of ill-intention. Mordred was the only son of Orkney who never married. He, while his brothers fled to England, was the one who stayed alone with her for twenty years–her living larder. Now that she was dead, he had become her grave. She existed in him like the vampire.”

— T.H. White, The Candle in the Wind


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