"Because when something happens, she’s the person I want to tell. The most basic indicator of love."

David Levithan, Every Day (via larmoyante)

(Source: kristylemos, via timothyjohnmacleod)

(Source: weheartit.com, via timothyjohnmacleod)

(Source: skatistatropicalista, via poetsorg)

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firsttimeuser:

The boy and the distorting mirror, Rotherham, 1960, John Chillingworth.

thank you poboh ;)

(via updownsmilefrown)

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fuckyeahdirectors:

Teri Garr, Gene Wilder, Marty Feldman and Mel Brooks on-set of Young Frankenstein (1974)

(via pbsamericanmasters)

other-wordly:

pronunciation | “ne-me-‘siz-m

"In the theory of literature, “projection” (of the reader into the character) no longer has any currency: yet it is the appropriate tonality of imaginative readings: reading a love story, it is scarcely adequate to say I project myself; I cling to the image of the lover, shut up with his image in the very enclosure of the book (everyone knows that such stories are read in a state of secession, of retirement, of voluptuous absence: in the toilet)."

r. barthes

"A long chain of equivalences links all the lovers in the world."

r. barthes

"My anxieties as to behavior are futile, ever more so, to infinity. If the other, incidentally or negligently, gives the telephone number of a place where he or she can be reached at certain times, I immediately grow baffled: should I telephone or shouldn’t I? (It would do no good to tell me that I can telephone - that is the objective, reasonable meaning of the message - for it is precisely this permission I don’t know how to handle.) What is futile is what apparently has and will have no consequence. But for me, an amorous subject, everything which is new, everything which disturbs, is received not as a fact but in the aspect of a sign which must be interpreted. From the lover’s point of view, the fact becomes consequential because it is immediately transformed into a sign: it is the sign, not the fact, which is consequential (by its aura). If the other has given me this new telephone number, what was that the sign of? Was it an invitation to telephone right away, for the pleasure of the call, or only should the occasion arise, out of necessity? My answer itself will be a sign, which the other will inevitably interpret, thereby releasing, between us, a tumultuous maneuvering of images. Everything signifies: by this proposition, I entrap myself, I bind myself in calculations, I keep myself from enjoyment.
Sometimes, by dint of deliberating about “nothing” (as the world sees it), I exhaust myself; then I try, in reaction, to return — like a drowning man who stamps on the floor of the sea — to a spontaneous decision (spontaneity: the great dream: paradise, power, delight): go on, telephone, since you want to! But such recourse is futile: amorous time does not permit the subject to align impulse and action, to make them coincide: I am not the man of mere “acting out” — my madness is tempered, it is not seen; it is right away that I fear consequences, any consequence: it is my fear — my deliberation — which is “spontaneous."

roland barthes