>I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers >Could not, with all their quantity of love, >Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her? >'Swounds, show me what thou'lt do: >Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't fast? woo't tear >thyself? >Woo't drink up eisel? eat a crocodile? >I'll do't. Dost thou come here to whine? >To outface me with leaping in her grave? >Be buried quick with her, and so will I: >And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw >Millions of acres on us, till our ground, >Singeing his pate against the burning zone, >Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'lt mouth, >I'll rant as well as thou.
"I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath, and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth."
>The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live.
>Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.
>A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
>>7321115 I don't cry while reading, sadly. I think of myself as pretty sensitive, but mainly to aural and visual stimuli. I grew up cinema-literate before I was, well... actually literate. So I think I may be broken.
>'Hey Jumbo, you silly toad, where's you mac, can't you see it's raining?' he called out, as tired but triumphant they trailed back to the main building after the performance. 'His real name is Bill,' he heard him explain to a visiting parent. 'We were the new boys together.'
>“Thus, neither of us is alive when the reader opens this book. But while the blood still throbs through my writing hand, you are still as much part of blessed matter as I am, and I can still talk to you from here to Alaska. Be true to your Dick. Do not let other fellows touch you. Do not talk to strangers. I hope you will love your baby. I hope it will be a boy. That husband of yours, I hope, will always treat you well, because otherwise my specter shall come at him, like black smoke, like a demented giant, and pull him apart nerve by nerve. And do not pity C. Q. One had to choose between him and H. H., and one wanted H. H. to exist at least a couple of months longer, so as to have him make you live in the minds of later generations. I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita.
Mrs Dalloway. >The part where Richard can't bring himself to tell Clarissa he loves her >The part with the old woman going to bed alone in the house opposite >something generally overwhelming about the constant contrast between the present and when Clarissa was 18 and there was all the excitement and romance with Sally
>>7321122 I love Hamlet as a character but I always think he's a real jackass for saying this. (I'm sure always visualizing Branagh's delivery doesn't help.) Yeah he was right to be pissed that she was being used and going along with it, but one of Hamlet's big flaws is that he sucks at acknowledging his own dickishness after it's happened.
"What a work is man" can grab me pretty hard though.
Any of you badassess saw Cumberbatch's production that was world simulcast around a week ago? The set and stage direction was pretty brilliant.
This is kinda vague and if another anon knows this book you'll be awesome as fuck. >Bruiser by Ian Chorão >multiple times honestly, it's a great book and really has more heartfelt moments than any other book I've read >when the Dad in the boom holds the narrator's hands under steaming water until the kid passes out from pain >watching his parents slow divorce >when he loses the love of his life. Arguably two loves of his life. I'm ordering this Friday. It's been too long.
The end of the Children of Hurin. It has to the bleakest and most utterly tragic thing I've ever read. Then they lifted up Túrin, and saw that his sword was broken asunder. So passed all that he possessed.
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