“Notably absent from “Beauty and the Beast” is the motif that so often appears in other subtypes, the requirement that the female obey the male in not looking at him or betraying the secret of his identity. No tasks are set for her. She is allowed to come and go, is indeed asked at first whether she came of her own free will, and is *requested* to return for the Beast’s sake. The Beast assumes a passive role and Beauty an active one. The Beast basically sits around waiting to be rescued by the handsome princess.”—Betsy Hearne - “Beauty and the Beast - Versions and Revisions of an Old Tale” (via corseque)
“It is a losing game mankind has played for more than a century. Sadness is what you are, do not deny it. The universe is a lonely place, a painful place. This is what we can share between us, period.”—
“For, after all, how do we know that two and two make four? Or that the force of gravity works? Or that the past is unchangeable? If both the past and the external world exist only in the mind, and if the mind itself is controllable – what then?”—George Orwell (via fluffynips)
“"July 4. Statistics show that we lose more fools on this day than in all the other days of the year put together. This proves, by the number left in stock, that one fourth of July per year is now inadequate, the country has grown so." - Mark Twain”—(via the-random-quotes)
have you ever thought about how weird sleeping is like we basically dress ourselves in special sleeping clothes and lay on special sleeping mats then spend the next few hours completely comatose all the while hallucinating vividly
“When a man sleeps, he is steeped and lost in a limp toneless happiness: awake he is restless, tortured by his body and the illusion of existence. Why have men spent the centuries seeking to overcome the awakened body? Put it to sleep, that is a better way. Let it serve only to turn the sleeping soul over, to change the blood-stream and thus make possible a deeper and more refined sleep.”—Flann O’Brien, At Swim-Two-Birds (via larmoyante)
There is no room in our hearts
for the dead, though we often imagine that there is,
or wish it to be so,
to preserve them in our warmth,
our sweet darkness, where their fists
might beat at the soft contours of our love.
And though we might like to think
that they would call out to us, they could never do so,
being there. They would never dare to speak,
lest their mouths, our names, fill
quietly with blood.
We carry the dead in our hands
as we might carry water - with a careful,
There is no other way.