This is my late-coming Christmas gift from Michelle! I will post photos of the actual poster once I have it, but I thought like sharing. She is the greatest! <3
a mixtape for: lyra silvertongue [listen] ⎪ “what you’re most like is marsh fire, that’s the place you have in the gyptian scheme. you got witch oil in your soul. deceptive, that’s what you are child.”one. vdf - thomas newman (instrumental) two. horse and i - bat for lashes three. pa pa power - dead man’s bones four. the monk - camille five. après moi - regina spektor six. while we have the sun - mirah seven. travelling woman - bat for lashes eight. cereal boxes - james newton howard (instrumental)
“Even if it means oblivion, friends, I’ll welcome it, because it won’t be nothing. We’ll be alive again in a thousand blades of grass, and a million leaves; we’ll be falling in the raindrops and blowing in the fresh breeze; we’ll be glittering in the dew under the stars and the moon out there in the physical world, which is our true home and always was.”
Things That Are: The Separation
The first days were the worst, nearly unbearable in their lonely desolation. The hours were as long as days, the days as long as lifetimes. Lyra felt her spirit age, weighted and wrinkled with longing. He was missing from her, and she from him.
Her body aged slower than her soul, and it was with bitter resentment that she looked at her reflection. She had grown quite fair, with shining hair and a strong face. “He will never see,” she whispered to the mirror. “Never again.”
With time, it was easier to pretend that she was not aching. She practiced smiles and conversations with Pantalaimon, and wore the dresses and demure looks they laid out for her. She always had been good at lying.
She dreamt of him every night, clinging to sleep, for it was her lifeline. She hoped she was imagining the pained eyes, the clenched jaw, the furrowed brow. “Be happy,” she willed, silently searching his anguish for some hope of respite. “Oh, Will, just smile. Please.”
And he did, every now and again, but only when she joined him in her dreams. Sometimes, they were on a ship, and she was reading the alethiometer again, content to stand in the spray of the sea. She would hear him calling her name, feel his hurried footsteps as he ran to her.
“Lyra?” He would be tentative and cautious as he placed his hands on her shoulders, careful not to startle her. And she would lean against his chest, turning her face so that she could see his eyes once more. “Will,” she would breathe, moving closer.
“Will,” she breathed, and the room was empty once more.
Will Parry (His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman)…he knew she’d be safer if he was there to look after her; but he wanted her to look after him, too, as she’d done when he was very small; he wanted her to bandage him and tuck him into bed and sing to him and take away all the trouble and surround him with all the warmth and softness and mother-kindness he needed so badly; and it was never going to happen. Part of him was only a little boy still.
EVERY ATOM | LYRA & WILL → ”I’ll be looking for you, Will, every moment, every single moment. And when we do find each other again, we’ll cling together so tight that nothing and no one’ll ever tear us apart. Every atom of me and every atom of you..”
1. if i were made of metal / patty larkin 2. welcome home (reprise) / radical face 3. the light / sara bareilles 4. young blood / birdy 5. lifesize / a fine frenzy 6. more than this / vanessa carlton 7. antebellum / vienna teng 8. history book / dry the river
Favorite Books of all time || His Dark Materials, by Philip Pullman
“Without stories, we wouldn’t be human beings at all”
Discussing film adaptations of His Dark Materials:
MJ: Has there been any interest in making another go at it?
PP: I’m quite tempted by the idea of doing it as a 24-part TV series like Game of Thrones. It doesn’t need the scale of the movie screen, it needs the length of a TV series.
This would make me deliriously happy. With an HBO production they wouldn’t need to downplay the controversial aspects of the book. They cold deal seriously with the themes of the text.
I drew this alethiometer instead of eating dinner.
one of the ghosts — an old woman — beckoned, urging her to come close. then she spoke, and Mary heard her say:
”tell them stories. they need the truth. you must tell them true stories, and everything will be well, just tell them stories.”
that was all, and then she was gone. it was one of those moments when we suddenly recall a dream that we’ve unaccountably forgotten, and back in a flood comes all the emotion we felt in our sleep. it was the dream she’d tried to describe to Atal, the night picture; but as Mary tried to find it again, it dissolved and drifted apart, just as these presences did in the open air. the dream was gone. all that was left was the sweetness of that feeling, and the injunction to tell them stories.
© THEME BY DARLIEECIOUS
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