“The garden was combing her hair and putting on her earrings. The house was full of dancing creatures, not male, not female but both, two lovers in one body. The books downstairs were reciting their poetry to each other, rubbing together, whispering through their leather covers. Wine was flowing through the water pipes. You caught my heart in your hands like a leaping fish.”—Wasteland by Francesca Lia Block (via mysteriia)
“Don’t expect to get anything back, don’t expect recognition for your efforts, don’t expect your genius to be discovered or your love to be understood. Act because you need to act.”—Paulo Coelho (via penseesduchoeur)
“Life is not easy for any of us. But what of that? We must have perseverance and above all confidence in ourselves. We must believe that we are gifted for something, and that this thing, at whatever cost, must be attained.”— Marie Curie (via gorgeousanon)
Hiddleston explains that as Loki's anger grows, so do his horns. "It's all that jealousy. It might be a crazy analogy, but the more Pinocchio lies, the bigger the nose gets. And the more Loki's pain and rage expand, the bigger the horns get. Also, they just look more badass. By The Avengers 3, I'll be like a magic elk."
To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell, read by Tom Hiddleston
Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk, and pass our long love’s day; Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood; And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear Time’s winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserv’d virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave’s a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like am’rous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapp’d power. Let us roll all our strength, and all Our sweetness, up into one ball; And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.