applecoreyearning

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Im a day late but happy pride to the most iconic polycule

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When you pretend to be in love you run the risk of feeling it, he who parodies without proper precautions ends up the victim of his own cunning. And even if he takes them, he ends up a victim just the same. As Pascal said: “It is almost impossible to feign love without turning into a lover.” […] That said, I must also warn you that when you hear me say, for example, that there was never any end to Paris, I will most likely be saying it ironically. But, anyway, I hope not to overwhelm you with too much irony. The kind that I practice has nothing to do with that which arises from desperation — I was stupidly desperate enough when I was young. I like a kind of irony I call benevolent, compassionate, like what we find, for example, in the best of Cervantes. I don’t like ferocious irony but rather the kind that vacillates between disappointment and hope. Okay?

— Enrique Vila-Matas, Never Any End to Paris.

The thing was all the kissing and the holding that was going on in Paris. And it was so romantic, just to be there and see them, even though I was twenty-one and sort of not romantic. But I really loved it, the way the people would just stand under a tree kissing; and they weren’t mauling at each other, they were just kissing.

— John Lennon, interview w/ David Sheff for Playboy. (September, 1980)

J’aime the kisses the Parisians give one another, touching their cheeks, and allowing men to do the same, though they never lock their arms in embrace.

— Henri Cole, Orphic Paris.

After a late lunch, Linda launched into a long paean to the joys of living in England. When she was finished, she turned to John and said, “Don’t you miss England?”

“Frankly,” John replied, “I miss Paris.”

— May Pang, Loving John. (1983)

If so, how I must be striving to not be annihilated by Paris, which I find so overwhelming. My face looks solitary and calm. […] What perplexing messages memories can yield. As I write this, their odors, their shadows, and their sweet music are almost too much to bear.

— Henri Cole, Orphic Paris.

“I don’t have any friends!” John reminded me. “Friendship is a romantic illusion!” He said that he had learned this the hard way after the breakup of his relationship with Paul McCartney, whom he had once regarded as his close friend.

— Fred Seaman, The Last Days of John Lennon. (1991)

To the most romantic corner in Paris where I left my heart and my illusion.

— Octavio Paz. (trans. Henri Cole)

I think, in one way, all of us were under a slight illusion that we might… Maybe it wasn’t an illusion, and maybe had we pushed harder, we would’ve gotten what we wanted, but I’m not sure we – anybody really knew what we wanted. We knew we didn’t like what was happening, but nobody knew quite what – what it was that we wanted. ’Cause we’d never had it.

— John Lennon, interview w/ Jim Ladd. (October 10th, 1974)

Everything ends, I thought.

Everything except Paris, I say now. Everything ends except Paris, for there is never any end to Paris, it is always with me, it chases me, it is my youth. Wherever I go, it travels with me, it’s a feast that follows me. There can be an end to this summer, it will end. The world can go to ruin, it will be ruined. But to my youth, to Paris, there is never any end. How terrible.

— Enrique Vila-Matas, Never Any End to Paris.

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i still have a crush on love quinn

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the beatles lezed out. you know it. i know it. why are we pretending they didn’t

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it’s crippling your honor

How's that growing fixation on the Beatles doing bbg

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remembered this gem.

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i need a drink

bashing my head into a wall

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call him guy fieri, the man is a resident of flavor town

Paul McCartney:

Linda: “a delicious sense of humour”

John: “a delicious broth of a boy”

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the thing is, to me, the story of John and Paul is the story of bonding with someone on a fundamental level before you're even old enough to conceptualize what that means, and then somehow bonding with him even more as you embark upon the dehumanizing ascent to stratospheric success, and all the while, it's becoming more and more obvious that one of you needs help no one can provide and the fame you've achieved – the thing you both always dreamed about together – is making it worse for him day by day, until he's howling in anguish and lashes out at you in an unforgivable way that you still can't help but fundamentally understand because if there's one thing you know it's that he needs help (your help – you wish it was your help he needed – you don't know what exactly he needs).

and now he's gone forever and you never got a chance to make it better or let him make it better.

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my lesbian mothers

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Idk, I think if I were John Lennon, dabbling in gay thoughts, and my friend Paul, who has always kinda looked like a mix of my crushes Elvis and Brigette Bardot, was getting hotter and hotter every year, and we were becoming closer and closer every year, writing love songs together and singing them to each other close enough to kiss, idk. I think I'd snap one day too.

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This was her role. And she was robbed.

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haha okay van… you can open your eyes now… (she always does this you guys, so silly, just give her a second)… van this is getting kinda old you can wake up now haha… Van wake up… this isn’t funny…

…

van?

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brokeback mountain… but make it the beatles

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what if we entangled our financials and made our creative partnership into a pseudo-marriage and then got real-married to our actual girlfriends within a week of each other while we were going through the nastiest pseudo-divorce (which, because of how legally entwined we are, is worse than an actual real-divorce) in history

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She came.... in through the bathroom window