#dan woolf

[papillon-de-mai]

— Patrick Marber, from "Closer" (1997)

[admireforever]

Closer

[cookiecrumbconundrum]

six months since || just another day, thank god

and i am glad, so deeply glad, that six months since the worst day it is just a normal day. i feel normal. i am on meds now. i am happier. i am in therapy. and i am no longer in the space. a thousands times happier and a thousand times more stable. i do things that make it easier for me to move through the world instead of just pushing through. it is another day and tomorrow will be another days and those days will bleed into a future.

when i was done dying, dan deacon | tired, ramón casas | “letter to violet dickinson”, virginia woolf | interior, model reading, edward hopper | sand and foam, kahlil gibran | burn it down, brian luong |tim kavanagh | grant howitt | the aeneid, virgil | jujutsu kaisen, gege akutami |undertale | nickie zimov | please stay, lucy dacus | suzanne siegel | rhythm of war, brandon sanderson  | stranger things, matt duffer & ross duffer | letter to an old poet, boygenius | sower at sunset, vincent van gogh | oathbringer, brandon sanderson | everything everywhere all at once, daniel kwan & daniel scheinert | once a lady told me, nikki giovanni | poet’s loft, david hettinger | kurt vonnegut | downtown express 72nd st. station, subway, new york, 1977, willy spiller | thanK you aIMee, taylor swift | daughters of the dust, julie dash | loose lips, kimya dawson | vincent van gogh | letters to vera, vladimir nabokov

[luckystarinsky]

“I just want a humble, murderously simple thing: that a person be glad when I walk into the room.”

—Marina Tsvetaeva, from “On Love”

[derangedrhythms]

He follows. I am pursued through the forest. All is rapt, all is nocturnal […]

Virginia Woolf, from ‘The Waves’

[breadcrxmbs-reblogs]

100% not surprised

[hitchell-mope]

Good movie. Depressing. But good.

[nstaaf-book]

Animal Farm by George Orwell

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Prompts: Art

Ekphrastic - literature that describes a work of art

A character sees their own portrait for the first time.

Describe a painting and challenge a friend to identify it.

The story of a painting from the point of view of…

The painter

The subject/model

The commissioner/purchaser

A visitor to a gallery or estate

A forger

A restorer

A character notices something in a painting that they had previously overlooked.

A self-portrait leading to a journey.

Describe a reproduction of a painting, and how it differs from the original.

A painting is used for a resurrection.

How is the painting framed?

A painting is destroyed.

Whose task is it to preserve the paintings?

Close up vs. far away.

A painting is recreated from a description.

Write a catalogue entry for your favourite painting.

Describe a painting on the opening night of a gallery or exhibition.

Focus on a pigment or brushstroke.

The history of an unfinished painting.

Uncover the layers.

The biggest painting you’ve seen.

The smallest painting you’ve seen.

Descriptions of paintings can be used for…

Moments of recognition – Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Strategy – Thrawn in Rebels & the novelisations

Symbols of the self – The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Communing with the dead – My Last Duchess by Robert Browning

Developing the character of the painter – Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

Developing the character of the model – The Girl with the Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier

Developing occupations – A Month in the Country by J.L. Carr

Setting the (internal and external) scene – To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf

Revealing secret symbols – every Dan Brown book ever?

Introducing clues – By The Pricking of My Thumbs by Agatha Christie

Relating historical events – The Monuments Men by Robert M. Edsel

Concealing a safe or doorway – every other mystery novel

Uncanny occurrences & obsessions – The Mezzotint by M.R. James

…or any use you put them to! Practice painting with words using the above prompts.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Prompts

[noradegrantz]

Closer (2004)

writer! Anakin x fem! reader

Anakin has Dan Woolf’s role in the fanfic and the reader has Alice Ayres’s role. It’s a pretty small fic cause I didn’t wanna write as many things as the movie <\3

Plus, I made it a more romantic and happy fic! I really hope that all of you will enjoy this! 💌

warnings: sexual content, implied smut, sex, established relationship

During a busy morning in London, writer Anakin meets a beautiful American woman after she is hit by a car, not used to the direction of traffic in England. On their walk back from the hospital, they stop by Postman's Park. Anakin asks her name, which she gives as ‘her name’. They soon become lovers.

One year later, Anakin has written a novel based on his lover’s life.

He truly loves you so much, the novel is full of stuff about you. How much he adores you, the things he likes about you, his relationship and daily life with you too. You worked at a local café in the mornings and as a stripper during nighttime. Who would have thought that a writer and a stripper would be such a match?

To him you were pure drug. His muse. His soul. Tormenting him. Your body, your eyes, your lips your tits, your thighs. Everything made him crave you more and more day by day.

On the weekends, when you were usually finishing from work before 2am, he drove you back home. After arriving home from the strip club, he bathed you slowly, touching all the right spots in the process, washed your hair throughly and lit candles to make a more romantic atmosphere.

Then, he made love to you. After wiping your naked body down with a towel, he laid you down on the bed and towered over you.

He entered you with such a delicacy and care. Pounding slowly while muffled moans left your cherry pink lips..

Oh, how much he loves those moans. They are like music in his ears. Knowing that even though you work in a strip club, none of these men get to put their filthy hands on you. Only him. He gets to undress you. He gets to touch you, to fuck you. Not anyone else. Him. Only Anakin. Even if you are a stripper you are so sensitive. You were a virgin before you met him. He has taught you everything. Positions, how to please him and how to please yourself as well. He always started off slowly and with care. Muttering sweet nothings in your ear.

“You’re taking me so well my love…”

“That’s it darling…I know that you can handle it”

He simply, can’t take his eyes off of you

and your angelic form.

You are an angel, that tastes like heaven.

[papillon-de-mai]

Closer was one of the most exciting, visceral pieces of writing I’d read. I really wanted to play Larry, but Patrick thought I was too young. Ciarán Hinds was cast in that role but I got a message from my agent: would I like to play Dan instead? Yes, I would.

My strongest memory is Dan’s softness. Larry rips him apart and he is really exposed. He is in love with the idea of being in love and just has a brutal awakening. Closer is such an honest examination of the pain from relationships and what it feels like to be bereft.

— Clive Owen, from "How we made Closer", Guardian (July 2019)

[staticvn]

assigning the foxes books that i like but it might not make any sense and its mostly classics:

neil: the ocean at the end of the lane, steppenwolf, the stranger, the road, the little prince, crime & punishment, nineteen eighty-four, the island of dr. moreau

andrew: the bell jar, we have always lived in the castle, the trial, dr jekyll and mr hyde (because im funny like that), demons, drive your plow over the bones of the dead

kevin: the illiad, the queen’s gambit, the goldfinch, the book thief, sir gawain and the green knight, the epic of gilgamesh

aaron: frankenstein, i know this much is true, the double (lmao), kafka on the shore, the people in the trees, at the mountains of madness, the catcher in the rye

nicky: a single man, demian, maurice (obviously), the picture of dorian gray (obviously), the three musketeers, arthur rimbaud’s poetry, (also bet he would be a fan of the classic ya stuff like hunger games and twilling)

renee: a little life, to the lighthouse, anna karenina, on earth we are briefly gorgeous, when the moon was ours, drive your plow over the bones of the dead

allison: carmilla (& dracula! bet), eileen/my year of rest and relaxation, sharp objects (gillian flynn in general of course), anna karenina, the bell jar, the haunting of hill house, waves (woolf)

matt: the perks of being a wallflower, the hobbit (or tolkien in general), the kite runner, stardust, narnia, waves (woolf also), the odyssey

dan: heaven, orlando, beloved, notes of a crocodile, the book thief, jane eyre, the people in the trees, (in my head she’d prefer nonfiction and i sadly am not really fond of those)

might add more if i think of any

[thebusylilbee]

"Chère Gisèle Pelicot, vous êtes entrée dans nos vies comme au tribunal d’Avignon, par la grande porte. [...] Le jour de l’ouverture du procès de vos violeurs a aussi été celui de l’officialisation de votre divorce. [Une meute] vous attend dans la salle d’audience : celle des 50 hommes qui sont jugés pour viol en réunion. Il y en aurait des dizaines d’autres qu’on n’a pas pu identifier. Vous faites face. Rien ne vous préparait à être dans cette salle d’audience. Un des accusés est arrivé en retard parce que, dit-il, il devait accompagner son fils à l’école pour la rentrée. Je me suis demandé qui avait accompagné vos petits-enfants, qui faisaient, eux aussi, leur rentrée scolaire. Je sais que vous avez pensé à eux à ce moment précis.

Réalité difficile à accepter

Vous les voyez tous pour la première fois sauf ce voisin que vous croisiez parfois dans la vie d’avant, celle qui ne reviendra jamais, celle de la maison du Vaucluse et de l’ignorance préservée. Vous les regardez. Ils regardent leurs pieds. Ils n’avaient jamais vu vos yeux, Jean, Didier, Jean-Luc, Romain, Redouan, Cédric, Grégory, Karim, Jean-Marc, Philippe, Quentin, Nicolas, Vincent, Patrick, Paul et les autres… On ploie sous la longueur de la liste et la banalité des profils. Les trois quarts d’entre eux ne reconnaissent pas les viols, comme tous ceux qui font les gros titres de l’actualité, les PPDA, Nicolas Hulot, Salim Berrada, Gérard Miller, Olivier Duhamel, Benoît Jacquot, Jacques Doillon, Gérard Depardieu…

Leurs arguments sont toujours les mêmes. Ils font tourner l’infect disque rayé du mensonge complaisant. Ils n’ont pas compris ce qu’ils faisaient. Ils sont sûrs d’être, eux aussi, des types bien, pas des monstres, même quand on leur montre les vidéos des crimes. Ils sont pompier, journaliste, étudiant, chauffeur routier, gardien de prison, infirmier, retraité, conseiller municipal, nos amis, nos amants, nos pères, nos frères. Une réalité difficile à accepter.

Un seul s’est adressé à vous pour vous présenter des excuses. Leur défense est un échantillon chimiquement pur de la violence patriarcale et des masques derrière lesquels elle s’abrite pour prospérer. « Le patriarcat est dans la maison ce que le fascisme est dans le monde », écrivait Virginia Woolf dans Trois guinées (1938).

Certains évoquent le poncif éculé de la pulsion, d’autres la frustration sexuelle due à l’absence prolongée d’une compagne officielle. Il y a celui qui trouve « bizarre » d’avoir fait ça. On trouve aussi des traces de « libertinage incompris ». Il y a celui qui ose l’ahurissant « viol involontaire ».

« Consentement par délégation »

Puisque vous étiez comateuse, il est difficile de prétendre que vous étiez partante. Difficile, mais quelques-uns tentent quand même le « j’ai pu croire qu’elle faisait semblant de dormir ». Les plus audacieux essayent le « consentement par délégation » ; le mari était d’accord, « il fait ce qu’il veut avec sa femme ». Une femme est soumise à son compagnon. L’ordre immémorial de la hiérarchie masculine est respecté.

Ce qui est certain, c’est qu’ils ont tous bandé à l’idée de pénétrer un corps inerte. Le viol et l’ordinaire de la sexualité semblent avoir beaucoup de points communs dans leur esprit. Ils ont bien le droit. Ils ont le pouvoir de le faire. Ils n’allaient pas passer à côté d’un viol gratuit près de chez eux. Ils ont été biberonnés à la haine des femmes, au mépris qui s’excite de l’impuissance de l’autre. Le sexisme féroce transpire de leur discours. La pornographie violente dont certains collectionnaient les images les plus répugnantes y est sans doute pour quelque chose. La domination absolue les a fait jouir. Ils ne voient pas le problème. Même au tribunal. Même devant vous.

Ils font ce que font la plupart des hommes accusés : ils se victimisent et rajoutent une couche de mépris sur celle qu’ils ont déjà humiliée. Ils sont tombés dans un traquenard. On les a piégés. Vous êtes restée là, à les écouter sans ciller, droite sur le ring. Vous décrivez désormais votre vie comme un combat de boxe. Le combat est déloyal. L’adversaire a les armes du terrorisme patriarcal. Que vous soyez à terre ou debout, cassée ou le poing levé, votre droiture fait craqueler la carapace d’impunité qui les a longtemps protégés.

Ce n’est pas seulement vous, Gisèle, qu’ils ont traitée comme une chose. Ils nous disent, à toutes, notre insignifiance. Votre force nous rend la nôtre. Merci pour ce cadeau immense.

Hélène Devynck, journaliste et autrice d’Impunité, (Seuil, 2022)"

[luckystarinsky]

“Maybe it was something not important to you, but it was my heart.”

—Mahmoud Darwish

[verbforverb]

Book Thoughts 2024

Tagged by @docholligay, everything in italics one hundred percent stolen from her. Anyone else who sees this can do this if they're interested, but maybe @sinni-ok-sessi if you feel like it? (challenge mode: only one patrick o'brien, super challenge mode: only one with a nautical theme.)

Best three books i read this year, that are new to me. In no real order. In so far as I think they have craft, in addition to me enjoying them.

Rebecca, Daphne Du Maurier

Orlando, Virginia Woolf (don't look at me)

A State of Freedom, Neel Mukherjee / Forest Dark, Nicole Krauss, tying because I couldn't choose between them, and they occupy a very similar space in my reading. I would probably say the Mukherjee is better done from a craft sense, but I felt more of a connection and also a greater ratio of enjoyment to intense bleakness from the Krauss.

Book I expected to love and hated: Hyperion, Dan Simmons. I don't think it's a bad book, but I did not enjoy it at all.

Book I expected to hate and loved: The Diamond Age, Neal Stephenson, although "expected to hate" is a bit of an exaggeration - if I read something I usually expect to get something out of it. Expected to be far more annoyed by and less interested in than I was, maybe. And "loved" is also a bit of an exaggeration for 'had a pretty fun time, far more thought provoking than expected, still said "Neal what the fuck" intermittently.'

Three recommendations for when you're drinking on a plane:

Moonraker, Ian Fleming (surprisingly fun romp, brought the Tranby Croft affair to my notice where it now haunts every piece of britlit I read, probably improved because my expectations were very low after Live and Let Die)

Spectacles, Sue Perkins (just a fun time, and very touching in places)

1Q84, Haruki Murakami, because you can let the plot do what it does without caring how much sense it makes, and no-one will care if you sometimes have to close the book to stare into space and mutter under your breath such things as "what the fuck, dude, why" or "please stop" or "you've met women before, right? or like, people?" (I read this on an international train journey and I wasn't drinking but wish I had been. but I'll tell you what, I wasn't bored.)

Book I will absolutely reread: I did already reread both Gaudy Night and Busman's Honeymoon, but maybe The Hunter, Tana French.

Book I found overhyped: The Goblin Emperor, Katherine Addison - I didn't hate it, I thought it was ok. Everyone else seems to absolutely love it. Maybe because I saw it billed as court intrigue, for which I need a book to have much more court and much, MUCH more intrigue.

Author I read the most this year: Dorothy Sayers

Favorite author I discovered: If this is "favorite author whose work I hadn't read before", Dorothy Sayers and Virginia Woolf, but it feels a little weird to talk about "discovering" them. If we're meaning "favorite author I'd never heard of before", probably Nicole Krauss, though I've only read the one of hers so who knows.

Reread that was better than I remembered: I don't track rereads, and also don't think I did much rereading this year, aside from some Dorothy Sayers and a couple of poetry collections, and those not with enough of a gap to forget anything about them. So not sure of an answer for this. I'll come back to this if I remember something.

Reread that was worse than I remembered: As above.

Book I would have bled for and died over if the cast had been all/mostly women: His Majesty's Dragon, Naomi Novik. Now, I enjoyed it reasonably well as is. But I think I could have gotten properly deranged about it if, as well as a universe where the Napoleonic wars are fought with dragons, we suspend our disbelief one step further and also have there be lesbians instead of institutional misogyny.

Favorite nonfiction: Portrait of a Marriage, Nigel Nicolson (don't look at me!!!!)

The worst three books I read this year, in that I think they utterly lacked craft, in addition to me not enjoying them:

Elephants Can Remember, Agatha Christie

On Basilisk Station, David Weber, which I'm being extra harsh on because I think I could have really enjoyed it in a trashy scifi way had it been maybe 20% better written.

Live and Let Die, Ian Fleming, although it did bring us the immortal line, "According to the CIA she's a corker."

[jeanchrisosme]

Il y a une sorte de tristesse qui vient du fait d’en savoir trop, de voir le monde tel qu’il est vraiment. C’est la tristesse de comprendre que la vie n’est pas vraiment une grande aventure, mais une série de petits moments, souvent insignifiants ; que l’amour n’est pas un conte de fées, mais une émotion fragile et fugace ; que le bonheur n’est pas un état permanent, mais un état rare, un aperçu fugace de quelque chose auquel nous ne pouvons jamais nous accrocher. Et dans cette compréhension, il y a une profonde solitude, un sentiment d’être coupé du monde, des autres, de soi-même.

Virginia Woolf