"What a pity!" said Combeferre. "What hideous things these butcheries are! Come, when there are no more kings, there will be no more war. Enjolras, you are taking aim at that sergeant, you are not looking at him. Fancy, he is a charming young man; he is intrepid; it is evident that he is thoughtful; those young artillery-men are very well educated; he has a father, a mother, a family; he is probably in love; he is not more than five and twenty at the most; he might be your brother.”
"He is," said Enjolras.
"Yes," replied Combeferre, "he is mine too. Well, let us not kill him."
"Let me alone. It must be done."
And a tear trickled slowly down Enjolras’ marble cheek.
Don’t worry, all is well. All is so perfectly, damnably well.
imagine your favourite character with the most agonizingly pained expression on their face as they watch the love of their life die and there’s nothing they can do about it
hOW DA RE U
well this will get bad
just going to leave this here
Finished in a flurry not unlike our last night in Cambridge. Watched my final sunrise, enjoyed my last cigarette. Didn’t think the view could be anymore perfect till I saw that beat up trilby. Honestly Sixsmith, as ridiculous as that thing makes you look, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.
The Cloud Atlas (via sednonomnismoriar)
“A half-finished book is, after all, a half finished love affair”.
the namesake of my blog title
Rome’ll decline and fall again, Cortés’ll lay Tenochtitlán to waste again, and later, Ewing will sail again, Adrian’ll be blown to pieces again, you and I’ll sleep under Corsican stars again, I’ll come to Bruges again, fall in and out of love with Eva again, you’ll read this letter again, the sun’ll grow cold again. Nietzsche’s gramophone record. When it ends, the Old One plays it again, for an eternity of eternities. Time cannot permeate this sabbatical. We do not stay dead long.
Cloud Atlas (via cest-la-morte)