#la douleur

[kansassire]

La douleur (aka Memory of war aka Marguerite Duras.1944), 2017, Emmanuel Finkiel

[orendil]

En mourant je ne le rejoins pas, je cesse de l'attendre.

Marguerite Duras, La Douleur

English: "In dying, I do not join him; I cease to wait for him."

[transparentgentlemenmarker]

Ce n’est pas la douleur dont j’ai peur, je la connais. Ce qui me fait peur, c’est la fin de ce petit et doux rêve. Stephen King

[rwpohl]

greed, erich von stroheim 1924

[vhscorp]

Combien de fois avons-nous dit : « c’est la vie » pour cacher que notre cœur saignait et masquer notre douleur…

V. H. SCORP

[oeuvrinarydurian]

It’s ONE WORD WEDNESDAY.

You know the (new) rules. Choose a GIF or image that illustrates, to you, the meaning of the word. We do this obviously under protest, because we have no new half nakedness. Reblog with tags within this thread because we want to see everybody’s choices, etc. 

The past two Wednesday words have been beautifully oblique. I have been giving this a lot of thought, and took @jessieren’s comment that she tries to come up with a word around a photo she happens to want to use to heart.

I hope you find the myriad possibilities in this week’s word. 

Today’s word is…..

Morse.

[the-rad-pineapple]

la douleur exquise

ao3

Will’s fallen in love. With an artist. It’s a terribly dangerous and stupid thing to do, and it’s ruined his life entirely. Will can pick out his artist’s work among his peers’ with ease. No one else can. Otherwise his artist would be caught. Imprisoned. Where he’d never be able to make another beautiful work again. That would be the ultimate tragedy. More tragic than the method Will’s artist uses to create his art. 

Because that is the catch, isn’t it? Creating art out of murder. Murdering to create art. Will wonders which of those his artist did first. Murder or art. 

Or, Will knows Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper and is completely in love with him, but he's convinced himself Hannibal will never reciprocate his love.

update post about this fic

[muhammadgiovanni]

Jean-Luc Godard “Alphaville” May 5, 1965.

[kansassire]

La douleur (aka Memory of war aka Marguerite Duras.1944), 2017, Emmanuel Finkiel

[nimto]

[vhscorp]

On aura beau avoir les meilleurs amis du monde et la plus belle des âmes-sœurs, face à la douleur, on est toujours seul…

V. H. SCORP

[fludark]

Her şey düzelmemiş ama bir yola girmiş işte. Sonra tekrar yürümüşüz tuz ve meneviş kokulu malum şehrin kıyılarında. O yarım kalan resmimi tamamlamış. Ben parmağımda emeği, gözlerimde kendi, kitabımı tamamlamışım. Münasebetsiz bir işe kalkışmış, şiirin yanında şair olmuşum. Ayçiçekleri güneşime dönmüş, istemsiz kıskanmışım. Üstündeki hırka olmak istemişim, anlamsız. Eteğinden yıldızlar dökülmüş, toplamış en derinime ilmek ilmek işlemişim. Bir elmayı iki yanından ısırmışız, bir güvercinin kanadına ilişip Eros'un omuzlarına konmuşuz. Tek oku üleşmiş, birbirimize düğümlenmişiz. Masallar alemine yelkenleri fora edip, dillere pelesenk bir destan yazmışız. Nesiller, nesilleri kovalamış, dünyadan eser kalmamış. Annelerin en sevdiği ninni, babaların uykusuz serzenişlerinin en münferit yanı olmuşuz. Bebeklerin en tatlı gülümsemesi, çocukların ilk elim sendesinin tekerlemesi, ergenlerin en sevdiklerine ilk işlenişlerindeki söz öbeğinin vazgeçilmez ikilisi, düğünlerin ilk dansı, ihtiyarların son sözü olmuş, destana dönüşmüşüz.Bir varmışız ama hiç yok olmamışız. Müzisyenlerin kalplerinde mahur beste, ressamların tuvale hunharca ilk istifrası, tiyatrocuların unuttuğu ilk text, hatırladıkça anılan yüzde namütenahi tebessüm bırakan o anı olmuşuz. Sevmiş, sevilmiş yağmur olmuş yağmış, buhar olup uçmuş en şeytansı varlıklarda dahi varlığından şüphe edilmeyen o İyilik kırıntısı ne ise bizde o olmuş, şu canını yediğimin dünyasında sıkı sıkı sarılan son umut haresi olmuş, cennetin en güzel köşesine konmuşuz...

[oeuvrinarydurian]

It’s Morsestache Monday!

I love this scene.

The Morsestache is lush, vibrant and present, glowing in the fluorescent luminescence of his bunker and the vending machines. It’s a standalone character, part Tom Selleck, part Sean Connery, part Sweeney-era, all 1969.

The rest of Morse is tentative and shy, almost childlike, even a little apprehensive-not quite sure what response he is going to receive at this overture to resume their collaboration. 

For his part, Thursday is feeling his years, is embarrassed to find himself benched and demoted in front of his young protégé, and doesn’t quite know how to lead him with these debits on his ledger sheet.

Where you might expect at least a manly handshake, and a shoulder clap to reestablish connection, instead, you have a scene shot with a lot of vertical lines, indicating separation, distance, isolation, and a somewhat truncated, non-linear flow of conversation between them, with awkward gaps and silences, and unnatural speech patterns for them both. Fred doesn’t entirely turn around, and Morse hasn’t fully emerged from his cave. He reminds me of an eel, ready to dart back under a rock. We don’t see them truly face each other. They’re both protecting themselves.

It’s bittersweet and painfully awkward, as the two of them try to navigate this new reality without hurting the other or harkening back to better times which surely both of them miss terribly. 

[the-rad-pineapple]

in a bit of a writing slump, but here's a little sneak peak into the last chapter of la douleur exquise.

[ladyniniane]