My god, can my family get anymore black?
I love how America has holidays about their independance and nice stuff
And we have bonfire night
Which is about burning and torturing catholics that tried to blow up the houses of parliment
Sweet
I love the British.
Modern horror fiction à la Shakespeare
As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites To countenance this horror!
—Shakespeare, The Tragedy of Macbeth II.iii.79-80 (via bardbot)
“ My personal life is a postscript to my novels; it consists of the sentence, ‘And I mean it.’ ”
Ayn Rand, Author’s Note to Atlas Shrugged
“XIVe arrondissement,” Paris, Je T’aime (2006)
Sitting there, alone in a foreign country, far from my job and everyone I know, a feeling came over me. It was like remembering something I’d never known before or had always been waiting for, but I didn’t know what. Maybe it was something I’d forgotten or something I’ve been missing all my life. All I can say is that I felt, at the same time, joy and sadness. But not too much sadness, because I felt alive. Yes, alive. That was the moment I fell in love with Paris. And I felt Paris fall in love with me.
Perhaps you didn’t know that I was proposed to on la Tour Eiffel. Le sigh.
