#gerard hopkins

[quillaffinity]

“be not afraid [but don’t come any closer]” -  AkiAngel Web Weave (CSM Spoilers)

i thought i’d die by bullet or blade, fang or claw, fire or flood. but

you are kinder, softer, and mine alone - touch me, i am ready to receive you

===

Chainsaw Man is written and drawn by Fujimoto Tatsuki

chainsaw man / frances molina, “o’ death” / chainsaw man / agustín gómez arcos, “the carnivorous lamb” / yves olade, “cut” / chainsaw man / sarah kane / chainsaw man / marie howe /  ainslie hogarth, “motherthing” / trista mateer / chainsaw man / leslie feinburg / françois mauriac, (tran. gerard hopkins), “the loved and the unloved” / chainsaw man / chainsaw man / rebecca lindenberg, “love, an index” / ??? / natalie young, “notes on earth life” / chainsaw man / jean-paul sarte, “no exit” / federico garcía lorca, “blood wedding and yerma” / jane austen, “pride and prejudice” / chainsaw man / chainsaw man / banana yoshimoto, “the lake” / madeline miller, “the song of achilles” / chainsaw man / ???

[malaisequotes]

“We should have been, you and I, each other's executioner.”

The Loved and the Unloved by François Mauriac, translated by Gerard Hopkins

[thebirdandhersong]

hey don't cry.... the world is charged with the grandeur of God, okay?

[pigeonwit]

Tipsy Davey is a lovely Davey, easy to blush and fluster – it doesn’t take much more than a smile to send him giggling into his glass, and it drives Jack’s own ego to dangerous heights. He could spend whole nights murmuring compliments in Davey’s ear, tracing his knuckle against Davey’s thigh, listening to him giggle against Jack’s own temple, feebly nudging him away (and letting him come right back) and mumbling "Jackie, stop…" without meaning a word of it.

And then there’s Drunk Davey, when his flush settles high on his cheeks and his bashfulness settles with it. He loses that nervousness he keeps underneath his skin that’s always pulling him back just a little, telling him not to come on too strong. He touches freely, whispers the pads of his fingertips over Jack’s wrists enough to drive him insane, sweeps over the bridge of Jack’s freckled nose and murmurs, “Glory be to God for dappled things…”. The bitter little middle-schooler that still lives in Jack’s mind has always thought that poetry was something just too dorky to be attractive, but that bitter little middle-schooler sure shuts the hell up when Davey whispers pretty things in Jack’s ear on a dark corner of the dance floor. Jack’s not complaining at all.

And then there’s Jack’s favourite – Truly Shitfaced Davey. He’s a rare gift, reserved only for New Years, birthdays and Halloween parties, if his costume is slutty enough. Jack can recount every single Truly Shitfaced Davey encounter he’s ever had, and while they’re nowhere near as suave as Drunk Davey, they are by all means his favourites.

“Face,” Davey mumbles, poking Jack’s cheek and marvelling at the squish of it. Jack has to bite his lip not to laugh.

“Yeah, babe?” He asks sweetly, because he is a wonderful boyfriend, thank you very much.

“Your face… It – you…” Davey’s face pinches as he tries to find his words underneath the drunk haze that’s blanketing his brain. He promptly gives up and groans, waving an arm dismissively as he burrows into Jack’s side. “S’good.”

Jack grins, pressing a kiss to the curls tickling his face. He gives up on trying to stifle his smile – Davey’s too drunk to care, and far too drunk to notice the way he’s staring inquisitvely at Jack’s lips the way he usually stares at a good book.

“Thanks, Davey-mine. Your face is good, too.”

Davey stares at him for a moment, mouth squared and silent for a little too long, until he makes a strangled little squeak and ducks his face into Jack’s neck.

“Shuddup!” He orders as Jack laughs, but he can’t help it. As much as he loves Davey when he’s reciting sonnets from memory, he especially loves him speechless, if only for the novelty of it.

[apocryphics]

[apoemaday]

"The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less"

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less; The times are winter, watch, a world undone: They waste, they wither worse; they as they run Or bring more or more blazon man’s distress. And I not help. Nor word now of success: All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one— Work which to see scarce so much as begun Makes welcome death, does dear forgetfulness. Or what is else? There is your world within. There rid the dragons, root out there the sin. Your will is law in that small commonweal.

[perrylemon]

Okay been working on this for a while. I’ve been looking at the actors and trying to pick out who’s who so here is a mostly completed Seating plan of Keating’s Classroom based on pure guess work.

I’m pretty sure this is correct based of the images of the entire classroom

And then I’ve tried my best to get the names for all the boys. There is 19 out of the total 20 boys’ names on the imbd so somebody was forgotten and I’ve just made a guess.

Here’s the names. Red is a name I’ve headcanonned because there was a name missing, blue is ones I’ve guessed at from actors appearances and names in the credits and Black is ones I know for definite. Spencer has a different name in the movie but I changed it for obvious reasons. He also has been called Allen I believe which is also a cool name.

From what I know, Shroom is the darts guy that I think has been given the fan name Daniel Ham Stanley and “ace” was the boy playing the recorder during the scene where Neil stole Cameron’s work and runs around the room. The other boys watch while “Dewey” claps along.

Edit: the boys that stand on their desks at the end are Jonus, Shroom, Russell, Hopkins, Stick, Spencer, Meeks, Pitts, Knox, Todd.

[aloysiavirgata]

So lately I’ve been very grateful for friends and read something that likened good ones to someone holding an umbrella over you in a downpour. Even when it’s just a silly text that gives you a smile on a shit day.

Anyway, thinking of that made me hanker for a prompt: AU, either Mulder or Scully stuck in a downpour when suddenly a handsome/pretty stranger opens an umbrella over their head.

Cheers to the real ones.

It’s raining.

It’s been raining forever, she thinks. Since she buried him, her belly like a full moon. Her belly pulling at her hips. Since she delivered his son and put lanolin on her chapped nipples and went shh, shh, through endless colicky nights full of Mylicon drops.

Since she handed the stranger - Vanessa, but still a stranger - her son and thought Eili, eili, lama sabachtani?

Raining since then, somewhere. Cold and grey and numbingly staccato. Raining, raining. The sky so fleecy and low.

She’s looking up at his apartment, as she does now; her belly flat as a Midwest highway.

“Jesus,” the man says, canting his umbrella over her as well. It’s a big golf umbrella, pied, as the most beautiful things are. “You look cold in this rain,” he says, tall and handsome as the surgeon she planned to marry once.

Once.

“I left it at work,” she says, a little breathless.

The man smiles down. “Jacob,” he says, and holds out his hand. He’s heterochromatic; one eye as blue as her own, as William’s. One eye as strange as Mulder’s.

“Dana,” she says, a little hitch in her voice. A little sob.

She’s cold and cold and cold, even with her hair grown out around her hollow face. Even with Doggett, who says “Agent Scully.”

Even with Skinner, who says, “Scully. Dana, DANA.”

***

Jacob, didn’t he fight an angel? Didn’t he wait fourteen years for the woman he loved? She’s drunk on a mid-range Beaujolais, can’t remember.

Fucks Jacob so she doesn’t freeze. Doesn’t burn. It’s good and warm and honest and she’s so very sorry. She’s so sorry, his lashes like the fringe on a velvet lampshade.

Scully sees his umbrella against the wall, wet and black and white. Furled like the wings of a bat as she leaves. The moon outside is a crescent. A rib. scythe.

“I love you,” she gasps, to no one. “I love you always.”

Grief is love with nowhere to go.

It’s drizzling, noncommittal and misty. “Spitting,” Mulder would say. Oxford.

He would say it, if he were here.

***

Jacob calls, even when the sun is shining.

She doesn’t answer. She looks away.

He calls less.

He doesn’t call.

***

“All things counter, original, spare, strange;

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

Praise him.”

[stardewism]

a fond and forlorn goodbye to autumn.

-

into the unknown, patrick mchale / autumn effect at argenteuil 1873, claude monet / something told the wild geese, rachel field / kiki's delivery service, studio ghibli / a world alone, lorde / over the garden wall, patrick mchale / litany in which certain things are crossed out, richard siken / unknown / pied beauty, gerard manley hopkins / night in the woods, infinite fall & secret lab

[peralton]

the fact that hopkins stands on his desk at the end of the movie, when he spent all of it thinking keating's classes were not important is something that is so personal to me.

[dramoor]

“... for Christ plays in ten thousand places, Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his To the Father through the features of men’s faces.”

~From As Kingfishers Catch Fire, by Gerard Manley Hopkins

(Art: Ecclesia, by Elena Murariu)

[apesoformythoughts]

“Patience, hard thing! The hard thing but to pray, But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks; To do without, take tosses, and obey. Rare patience roots in these, and, these away, Nowhere. Natural heart’s ivy, Patience masks Our ruins of wrecked past purpose. There she basks Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day.

We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills Of us we do bid God bend to him even so. And where is he who more and more distils Delicious kindness?—He is patient. Patience fills His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know.”

— Gerard Manley Hopkins

[rueroyale]

Counterpoint, a collection

Bach's Fugue 4 in C# minor from Well-Tempered Clavier I, autograph

Gaudy Night, by Dorothy L. Sayers

Bach's Fugue 4 in C# minor from WTC I, performed by Kimiko Ishizaka

Pale Fire, by Vladimir Nabokov

Uncredited illustration from The New Yorker, March 6, 2023

An Essay on Man, Alexander Pope

Thomaskirche, Leipzig, postcard

Original Print: That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire (Gerard Manley Hopkins), from The Wytham Studio

[extollingtheeveryday]

Gerard Manley Hopkins // "Spring"

[haveyoureadthispoem-poll]

"The world is charged with the grandeur of God. / It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; / It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil / Crushed."

Read it here | Reblog for a larger sample size!

[apocryphics]