dfotw: (Default)
Because I swore I couldn't do it, here's my attempt to choose just ten The Decemberists songs. My favourites. The ones that never fail to make me cry or, at least, leave my heart in my throat.

There are many, many more. In fact, it'd be easier to make a list of the songs I don't like from them (less than five? In the whole of their seven albums? Thereabouts). I didn't even get to include any of the songs from their last album... 'Rise to me' should've made the list, but I couldn't find it a place...

Anyway, here are My Ten Favourite The Decemberists Songs. All of them are worth the listen, and don't let the lyrics pass you by, they're the best part of most songs...


Red Right Ankle

Sample lyrics: This is the story of the boys who loved you, loved you now and loved you then. Some were sweet and some were cold and snubbed you, some just laid around in bed... some of them crumbled you straigh to your knees, did it cruelly, did it tenderly... some of them crawled their way into your heart to rend the ventricles apart...




My Ten Favourite The Decemberists Songs! )
dfotw: (guti)
I know that most people who follow this journal are, to some extent, into football slash, so it is with great pleasure that I bring a book rec that will undoubtedly resonate with all of you.



The blurb says that 'Ravages' is a love story between two footballers -Steve Gavan and Daniël Borghart, who play for a fictional club in the Premier-, but it's so, so much more than that. It's a story about loss, about acceptance, about secrets and what happens when those secrets come to light.

It's not the typical boy-meets-boy, boys-fall-instantly-in-love, boys-face-contrived-circumstances-that-keep-them-apart, boys-have-a-happy-ending story. Seriously, take your expectations and leave them at the door when you start this book, because this is a story that goes much deeper than that. I dare you not to fall in love with the characters -the main couple, their teammates and friends-. I dare you not to feel their struggles as your own. I dare you not to read this book and then look at the fanfiction we all read and write and see it differently.

I really, really, really don't have enough words to praise this story.

You can read more about 'Ravages' here, enter a giveaway for one copy at the author's blog here or buy a copy straight from the publishing house here.

I promise you won't regret it... I know I didn't!

Click for a small extract from the book... )
dfotw: (Default)


You saved my life, he says, I owe you everything.

You don’t, I say, you don’t owe me squat, let’s just get going, let’s just get gone, but he’s relentless,

keeps saying, I owe you, says, Your shoes are filling with your own damn blood,

you must want something, just tell me, and it’s yours
.

But I can’t look at him, can hardly speak,

I took the bullet for all the wrong reasons, I’d just as soon kill you myself, I say.

You keep saying, I owe you, I owe… but you say the same thing every time.

Let’s not talk about it, let’s just not talk.

Not because I don’t believe it, not because I want it any different, but I’m always saving

and you’re always owing and I’m tired of asking to settle the debt.

Don’t bother.

You never mean it anyway, not really, and it only makes me that much more ashamed.

There’s only one thing I want, don’t make me say it, just get me bandages, I’m bleeding,

I’m not just making conversation.

There’s smashed glass glittering everywhere like stars. It’s a Western, Henry,

it’s a downright shoot-em-up. We’ve made a graveyard out of the bone white afternoon.

It’s another wrong-man-dies scenario

and we keep doing it, Henry, keep saying, until we get it right…

but we always win and we never quit, see, we’ve won again, here we are at the place where I get to beg for it

where I get to say, Please, for just one night, will you lay down next to me, we can leave our clothes on, we can stay all buttoned up?

or will I say

Roll over and let me fuck you till you puke, Henry, you owe me this much, you can indulge me this at least, can’t you?,

but we both know how it goes. I say, I want you inside me and you hold my head underwater,

I say, I want you inside me and you split me open with a knife.

I’m battling monsters, half-monkey, half-tarantula, I’m pulling you out of the burning buildings and you say, I’ll give you anything.

But you never come through.

Give me bullet power. Give me power over angels. Even when you’re standing up

you look like you’re lying down, but will you let me kiss your neck, baby? Do I have to tie your arms down?

Do I have to stick my tongue in your mouth like the hand of a thief, like a burglary

like it’s just another petty theft? It makes me tired, Henry. Do you see what I mean?

Do you see what I’m getting at?

You swallowing matches and suddenly I’m yelling, Strike me. Strike anywhere.

I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you’ve taken something out of me, and I have to search my body for the scars, thinking

Did he find that one last tender place to sink his teeth in?.

I know you want me to say it, Henry,

it’s in the script, you want me to say, Lie down on the bed, you’re all I ever wanted and worth dying for too

but I think I’d rather keep the bullet this time. It’s mine, you can’t have it, see,

I’m not giving it up. This way you still owe me, and that’s as good as anything.

You can’t get out of this one, Henry, you can’t get it out of me, and with this bullet

lodged in my chest, covered with your name, I will turn myself into a gun, because it’s all I have,

because I’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I’ll be your

slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this bullet inside me

‘cause I couldn’t make you love me and I’m tired of pulling your teeth. Don’t you see, it’s like

I’ve swallowed your house keys, and it feels so natural, like the bullet was already there,

like it’s been waiting inside me the whole time.

Do you want it? Do you want anything I have? Will you throw me to the ground

like you mean it, reach inside and wrestle it out with your bare hands?

If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand.

Do you know how it ends? Do you feel lucky? Do you want to go home now?

There’s a bottle of whiskey in the trunk of the Chevy and a dead man at our feet staring up at us like we’re something interesting.

This is where the evening splits in half, Henry, love or death. Grab an end, pull hard, and make a wish.


Richard Siken, Wishbone.

dfotw: (Default)



Then the rainstorm came over me
And I felt my spirit break;
I had lost all of my belief, you see
And realized my mistake,
But time threw a prayer to me
And all around me became still...

I need love, love's divine
Please forgive me now, I see that I've been blind,
Give me love, love is what I need to help me know my name...

Through the rainstorm came sanctuary
And I felt my spirit fly;
I had found all of my reality
I realize what it takes...

'Cause I need love, love's divine
Please forgive me now, I see that I've been blind,
Give me love, love is what I need to help me know my name...

Oh I, don't bend (don't bend), don't break (don't break)
Show me how to live and promise me you won't forsake
'Cause love can help me know my name...

Well I try to say there's nothing wrong
But inside I felt me lying all along
But the message here was plain to see:
Believe me...

'Cause I need love, love's divine
Please forgive me now, I see that I've been blind,
Give me love, love is what I need to help me know my name...

Oh I, don't bend (don't bend), don't break (don't break)
Show me how to live and promise me you won't forsake
'Cause love can help me know my name...

Love can help me know my name.

Seal, Love's Divine.



(I just realised how great my little moodtheme icon goes with the video... *__*)
dfotw: (public)



Let me apologize to begin with,
Let me apologize for what I'm about to say,
But trying to be genuine was harder than it seemed
And somehow I got caught up in between...

Let me apologize to begin with,
Let me apologize for what I'm about to say,
But trying to be someone else was harder than it seemed
And somehow I got caught up in between...

Between my pride and my promise
Between my lies and how the truth gets in the way...

The things I want to say to you get lost before they come,
The only thing that's worse than one is none...
 
Let me apologize to begin with,
Let me apologize for what I'm about to say,
But trying to regain your trust was harder than it seemed
And somehow I got caught up in between...

Between my pride and my promise,
Between my lies and how the truth gets in the way

The things I want to say to you get lost before they come,
The only thing that's worse than one is none...
The only thing that's worse than one is none...
 
And I cannot explain to you
In anything I say or do or plan...

Fear is not afraid of you
But guilt's a language you can understand...

I cannot explain to you
In anything I say or do,
I hope the actions speak the words they can...

For my pride and my promise,
For my lies and how the truth gets in the way...

The things I want to say to you get lost before they come,
The only thing that's worse than one is...

Pride and my promise,
Between my lies and how the truth gets in the way..

The things I want to say to you get lost before they come,
The only thing that's worse than one is none...



Linkin Park, from their album 'Minutes to Midnight, 'In Between
dfotw: (Default)



... Todo lo que usted quiera, sí señor, pero son las palabras las que cantan, las que suben y bajan... Me prosterno ante ellas... Las amo, las adhiero, las persigo, las muerdo, las derrito... Amo tanto las palabras... Las inesperadas... Las que glotonamente se esperan, se escuchan, hasta que de pronto caen... Vocablos amados... Brillan como piedras de colores, saltan como platinados peces, son espuma, hilo, metal, rocío... Persigo algunas palabras... Son tan hermosas que las quiero poner todas en mi poema... Las agarro al vuelo, cuando van zumbando, y las atrapo, las limpio, las pelo, me preparo frente al plato, las siento cristalinas, vibrantes, ebúrneas, vegetales, aceitosas, como frutas, como algas, como ágatas, como aceitunas... Y entonces las revuelvo, las agito, me las bebo, me las zampo, las trituro, las emperejilo, las liberto... Las dejo como estalactitas en mi poema, como pedacitos de madera bruñida, como carbón, como restos de naufragio, regalos de la ola... Todo está en la palabra... Una idea entera se cambia porque una palabra se transladó de sitio, o porque otra se sentó como una reinita adentro de una frase que no la esperaba y que le obedeció... Tienen sombra, transparencia, peso, plumas, pelos, tienen de todo lo que se les fue agregando de tanto rodar por el río, de tanto transmigrar de patria, de tanto ser raíces... Son antiquísimas y recientísimas... Viven en el féretro escondido y en la flor apenas comenzada... Qué buen idioma el mío, qué buena lengua heredamos de los conquistadores torvos... Estos andaban a zancadas por las tremendas cordilleras, por las Américas encrespadas, buscando patatas, butifarras, frijolitos, tabaco negro, oro, maíz, huevos fritos, con aquel apetito voraz que nunca más se ha visto en el mundo... Todo se lo tragaban, con religiones, pirámides, tribus, idolatrías iguales a las que ellos traían en sus grandes bolsas... Por donde pasaban quedaba arrasada la tierra... Pero a los bárbaros se les caían de las botas, de las barbas, de los yelmos, de las herraduras, como piedrecitas, las palabras luminosas que se quedaron aquí resplandecientes... el idioma. Salimos perdiendo... Salimos ganando... Se llevaron el oro y nos dejaron el oro... Se lo llevaron todo y nos dejaron todo... Nos dejaron las palabras.

Confieso que he vivido, Pablo Neruda


In English... )
dfotw: (Default)


MagentaStar, 'The Sun Dance'


I feel pretty, oh so pretty,
I feel pretty and witty and fine,
And I pity any girl who isn't me tonight...

I feel charming, oh so charming,
It's alarming how charming I feel,
And so pretty that I hardly can believe I'm real...

See that pretty girl in that mirror there?
Who can that attractive girl be?
Such a pretty face, such a pretty dress, such a pretty smile, such a pretty me!

I feel stunning, and entrancing,
Feel like running and dancing for joy...
For I'm loved by a pretty wonderful boy!
 
 
Have you met my good friend Maria?
The craziest girl on the block...
You'll know her the minute you see her,
She's the one who is in an advanced state of shock!
She thinks she's in love, she thnks she's in Spain...
She isn't in love, she're mere insane!
It must be the heat, or some rare disease,
Or too much to eat... or maybe it's fleas!
Keep away from her, send for Chino,
This is not the Maria we know:
Honest and pure, polite and refined,
Well-bred and mature, and out of her mind!
 
I feel pretty, oh so pretty,
That the city should give me its key...
A committee should be organised to honour me!

I feel pretty, I feel sunny,
I feel dizzy and funny and fine...
And so pretty Miss America should just resign!

See that pretty girl in that mirror there?
What mirror where?
Who can that attractive girl be?
Which? What? Where? Who?
Such a pretty face, such a pretty dress, such a pretty smile, such a pretty me!

I feel stunning,
I feel stunning!
And entrancing,
And entrancing
Feel like running and dancing for joy...
For I'm loved by a pretty wonderful boy!
 


Dame Kiri Te Kanawa, directed by Leonard Bernstein - 'I feel pretty', West Side Story
dfotw: (public)

Lampost and flowers, by Jason's Travel Photography.


Slow down, you move too fast,
You got to make the morning last...
Just kicking down the cobble stones,
Looking for fun and feelin' groovy.

Ba da, Ba da, Ba da, Ba da... feelin' groovy.

Hello lamp-post,
What cha knowin'?
I've come to watch your flowers growin'...
Ain't cha got no rhymes for me?
Doot-in' doo-doo,
Feelin' groovy...

Ba da, Ba da, Ba da, Ba da... feelin' groovy.

I've got no deeds to do,
No promises to keep...
I'm dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep.
Let the morning time drop all it's petals on me.
Life, I love you,
All is groovy...





Simon & Garfunkel, The 59th Street Bridge Song.

dfotw: (Default)
título o descripción


Only in August my heart was aflame,
Catching the scent of your Wind-stirred hair,
Now, though you spread it to soften my sleep
Through the night, I should hardly care.

Only last August I drank that water
Because it had chanced to cool your hands;
When love is over, how little of love
Even the lover understands!

Laurence Hope, When Love is Over (Song of Khan Zada)
dfotw: (Default)





Everything is open,
Nothing is set in stone,
Rivers turn to ocean,
Oceans tide you home...
Home is where your heart is,
But your heart had to roam,
Drifting over bridges
Never to return,
Watching bridges burn...

You’re driftwood, floating underwater,
Breaking into pieces pieces, pieces...
Just driftwood, hollow and of no use,
Waterfalls will find you, bind you, grind you...

Nobody is an island,
Everyone has to go,
Pillars turn to butter,
Butterflying low...
Low is where your heart is,
But your heart has to grow,
Drifting under bridges,
Never with the flow...



And you really didn’t think it would happen,
But it really is the end of the line,
So I’m sorry that you turned to driftwood,
But you’ve been drifting for a long, long time...

Everywhere there’s trouble,
Nowhere’s safe to go,
Pushes turn to shovels,
Shovelling the snow...
Frozen you have chosen
The path you wish to go,
Drifting now forever
And forever more
Until you reach your shore...

You’re driftwood, floating underwater,
Breaking into pieces, pieces, pieces...
Just driftwood, hollow and of no use,
Waterfalls will find you, bind you, grind you...

And you really didn’t think it would happen,
But it really is the end of the line,
So I’m sorry that you turned to driftwood
But you’ve been drifting for a long, long time...
You’ve been drifting for a long long time...
You’ve been drifting for a long, long,
Drifting for a long, long time...



Travis - Driftwood
dfotw: (Default)

Manuel Libres Librodo Jr., 'A I S H W A R Y A' - here



How much I loved that way you had
Of smiling most, when very sad,
A smile which carried tender hints
Of delicate tints
And warbling birds,
Of sun and spring,
And yet, more than all other thing,
Of Weariness beyond all Words!

None other ever smiled that way,
None that I know,—
The essence of all Gaiety lay,
Of all mad mirth that men may know,
In that sad smile, serene and slow,
That on your lips was wont to play.




It needed many delicate lines
And subtle curves and roseate tints
To make that weary radiant smile;
It flickered, as beneath the vines
The sunshine through green shadow glints
On the pale path that lies below,
Flickered and flashed, and died away,
But the strange thoughts it woke meanwhile
Were wont to stay.

Thoughts of Strange Things you used to know
In dim, dead lives, lived long ago,
Some madly mirthful Merriment
Whose lingering light is yet unspent,—
Some unimaginable Woe,—
Your strange, sad smile forgets these not,
Though you, yourself, long since, forgot!


Laurence Hope, 'Second Song of Zahir-u-Din' - India's Love Lyrics
dfotw: (Default)





Let me watch by the fire and remember my days
And it may be a trick of the firelight,
But the flickering pages that trouble my sight
Is a book I'm afraid to write...

It's the book of my days, it's the book of my life
And it's cut like a fruit on the blade of a knife
And it's all there to see as the section reveals
There's some sorrow in every life...

If it reads like a puzzle, a wandering maze,
Then I won't understand 'til the end of my days
I'm still forced to remember,
Remember the words of my life...

There are promises broken and promises kept,
Angry words that were spoken, when I should have wept;
There's a chapter of secrets, and words to confess
If I lose everything that I possess...

There's a chapter on loss and a ghost who won't die,
There's a chapter on love where the ink's never dry,
There are sentences served in a prison I built out of lies...

Though the pages are numbered,
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life...



There's a chapter on fathers, a chapter on sons,
There are pages of conflicts that nobody won,
And the battles you lost and your bitter defeat,
There's a page where we fail to meet...

There are tales of good fortune that couldn't be planned,
There's a chapter on god that I don't understand,
There's a promise of Heaven and Hell but I'm damned if I see...

Though the pages are numbered,
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life...

Now the daylight's returning,
And if one sentence is true,
All these pages are burning
And all that's left is you...

And though the pages are numbered,
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life...





Sting - The book of my life
dfotw: (Default)
título o descripción

Queen on her throne, by Rhoda Campbell Chase.


How much she hath glorified herself, and lived deliciously, so much torment and sorrow give her: for she saith in her heart: 'I sit a queen, and am no widow, and shall see no sorrow'.

(Revelation 18:7, King James Bible)
dfotw: (Default)


Camille Seaman, Rain over Fields of Gold, Kansas, May 2008



You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley,
You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in fields of gold...
So she took her love for to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of barley,
In his arms she fell as her hair came down
Among the fields of gold...

Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley?
We'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we lie in fields of gold...
See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon the fields of barley,
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold...
   

I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that I've broken
But I swear in the days still left
We'll walk in fields of gold,
We'll walk in fields of gold...

Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley,
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold...
You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley,
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in fields of gold,
When we walked in fields of gold,
When we walked in fields of gold...

Sting, Fields of gold
dfotw: (Default)


Aubrey Beardsley, The Platonic Lament, 'Salomé' (Oscar Wilde, 1907 ed.)



Estabas sola, pero tranquila,
cuando te dijo "qué linda estás"
y fue una ráfaga de la vida,
fue una ventana en la oscuridad

y susurrado como en los cuentos
aprovechó tu debilidad,
llovió la lluvia en los cauces secos
y puso un beso en tu soledad.

Como una flor jamás presentida
se hizo el guardián de tu intimidad,
en los balcones ropa tendida
y afuera el ruido de la ciudad

Pero pensando que el tiempo es vela
que se deshace sin avisar
encarcelaste al amor que vuela
con el temor de lo que se va.

Y te entregaste sin condiciones
y te olvidaste quizá de ti
y como dicen en las canciones:
'si tú te vas, ¿qué será de mí?'.

 
   

Forzaste quizá demasiado los lazos
pensando que en eso consiste el amor
en dar, sin medir, el calor de un abrazo.
Quién sabe qué fue, qué pasó...

Estabas sola pero tranquila
cuando te dijo: "vengo por ti,
"eres la cura de mis heridas
toda la vida que no viví".

¿Y cómo hacer para no quererle?,
¿cuál es el paso que hay que medir?,
¿cuál es el límite de la fuente,
cuál es el tope de la raíz?.

Forzaste quizá demasiado los lazos
pensando que en eso consiste el amor
en dar, sin medir, el calor de un abrazo.
Quién sabe qué fue, qué pasó...
qué pasó…

Pedro Guerra, Lazos
dfotw: (Default)
Panel excerpt from "The Burial of the Dead," a graphic interpretation of T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land, by Ben Powis
 
'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Od' und leer das Meer.
T.S Eliot, The Waste Land, I. The Burial of the Dead (35-42)



Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
—But who is that on the other side of you?
T.S Eliot, The Waste Land, V. What the Thunder said (359-365)

 
dfotw: (Default)



The singer only sang the Joy of Life,
For all too well, alas! the singer knew
How hard the daily toil, how keen the strife,
How salt the falling tear; the joys how few.

He who thinks hard soon finds it hard to live,
Learning the Secret Bitterness of Things:
So, leaving thought, the singer strove to give
A level lightness to his lyric strings.

He only sang of Love; its joy and pain,
But each man in his early season loves;
Each finds the old, lost Paradise again,
Unfolding leaves, and roses, nesting doves.

(...)

Oh, roseate lips he would have loved to kiss,
Oh, eager lovers that he never knew!
What should you know of him, or words of his?--
But all the songs he sang were sung for you!
'The Singer', Laurence Hope, India's Love Lyrics
dfotw: (Default)
Alan Lee, Rivendell, ilustration for 'The Lord of the Rings' / ilustración para 'El Señor de los Anillos'

I have claimed that Escape is one of the main functions of fairy-stories, and since I do not disapprove of them, it is plain that I do not accept the tone of scorn or pity with which "Escape" is now so often used: a tone for which the uses of the word outside literary criticism give no warrant at all. In what the misusers are fond of calling Real Life, Escape is evidently as a rule very practical, and may even be heroic. In real life it is difficult to blame it, unless it fails; in criticism it would seem to be the worse the better it succeeds. Evidently we are faced by a misuse of words, and also by a confusion of thought.
Why should a man be scorned, if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home? Or if, when he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls? The world outside has not become less real because the prisoner cannot see it. In using Escape in this way the critics have chosen the wrong word, and, what is more, they are confusing, not always by sincere error, the Escape of the Prisoner with the Flight of the Deserter. Just so a Party-spokesman might have labelled departure from the misery of the Fürher's or any other Reich and even criticism of it as treachery. In the same way these critics, to make confusion worse, and so to bring into contempt their opponents, stick their label of scorn not only on to Desertion, but on to real Escape, and what are often its companions, Disgust, Anger, Condemnation, and Revolt. Not only do they confound the escape of the prisoner with the flight of the deserter; but they would seem to prefer the acquiescence of the 'quisling' to the resistance of the patriot. To such thinking you have only to say 'the land you loved is doomed' to excuse any treachery, indeed to glorify it.
J.R.R. Tolkien, 'On fairy stories', Lecture, 8 March 1939, enlarged for publication 1947.

He alegado que la Evasión es una de las principales funciones de los cuentos de hadas y, puesto que no los desapruebo, está claro que no acepto el tono peyorativo o condescendiente con el que tan a menudo se emplea hoy en día el término Evasión. Tono que no está en absoluto justificado por los usos de esta palabra fuera del ámbito de la crítica literaria. La Evasión es evidentemente muy práctica por regla general y puede incluso resultar heroica en la Vida Real, como gustan llamarla los que usan mal el término. En la vida real es difícil reprocharle nada, a menos que se malogre. En el campo de la crítica, cuanto más éxito tenga, peor. Es evidente que nos enfrentamos a un uso erróneo de las palabras y al mismo tiempo a una confusión de ideas.
¿Por qué ha de despreciarse a la persona que, estando en prisión, intenta fugarse y regresar a casa? Y en caso de no lograrlo, ¿por qué ha de despreciársela si piensa y habla de otros temas que no sean carceleros y rejas? El mundo exterior no ha dejado de ser real porque el prisionero no pueda verlo. Los críticos han elegido una palabra inapropiada cuando utilizan el término Evasión en la forma en que lo hacen; y lo que es peor, están confundiendo, y no siempre con buena voluntad, la Evasión del prisionero con la huida del desertor. De la misma manera, un Portavoz del Partido habría calificado de traidor al que tan sólo criticara o al que escapara de las penalidades del Reich del Führer o de cualquier otro Reich. De igual forma, para hacer la confusión aún mayor y dejar en ridículo a sus oponentes, estos críticos aplican la etiqueta de su desprecio no sólo a la auténtica Evasión, sino a la Deserción y a sus frecuentes camaradas: el Hastío, la Angustia, la Reprobación y la Rebelión. No sólo confunden la fuga del prisionero con la huida del desertor; da la impresión de que prefieren la aquiescencia del colaboracionista a la resistencia del patriota. Si así se piensa, basta decir «la tierra que amamos está condenada» para excusar cualquier traición; más aún, para glorificarla.
J.R.R. Tolkien, 'Sobre los cuentos de hadas', Conferencia dictada en Oxford en marzo de 1939, publicada en 1947.
dfotw: (Default)

ttulo o descripcin
'Der Winter', Edgar Ende (1938)


¿Pero que esperaba?

"Llegar a casa. Y ahora sólo hay esta oscuridad y este vacío. Debería haber sabido que nunca se puede regresar. Yo ya no soy el que era, por eso nada es ya como era. Ahora lo sé."

El espejo en el espejo, Michael Ende, 1986, Ed. Alfaguara



But what was I hoping for?

"To come back home. And now there's only this darkness and this emptiness. I should have known that you can never come back. I am not who I once was, so nothing is what it once was. Now I know."

Mirror in the mirror, Michael Ende, 1986, Viking

Profile

dfotw: (Default)
dfotw

January 2012

S M T W T F S
1234567
89 1011121314
15 16171819 2021
22232425262728
293031    

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 24th, 2017 04:53 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios