“[…]If Snowpiercer had merely told the tale of an oppressed working class rising up to seize power from an evil overlord, it would already have been an improvement over most of the political messages in mainstream cinema. There are all sorts of nice touches in its portrayal of a declining capitalism that can maintain its ideological legitimacy even when it literally has no more bullets in its guns.

But the story Bong tells goes beyond that. It’s about the limitations of a revolution which merely takes over the existing social machinery rather than attempting to transcend it. And it’s all the more effective because the heart of that critique comes as a late surprise, from a character we might not expect.

[…]All too often, explicitly political art fails as both art and politics. Socialists shouldn’t put up with half-assed imitations of popular genres, nor with political messages denuded of anything but the lowest common denominator.

What makes Snowpiercer satisfying is that it commits neither error. It’s an engrossing and stylish movie, and its underlying themes go beyond merely pointing out class exploitation to challenge the logic of capital. It’s a movie that should be seen as widely as possible, if only so that Bong Joon-ho gets more chances to make movies for English-speaking audiences that badly need them.”

Smash the Engine by Peter Frase | Jacobin Magazine (via filmantidote)

No one spoke as Quintana bent before Florenza, gripping the girl’s face with one hand, studying it hard.
‘Our spirit is mightier than the filth of our memories, Florenza of Nebia. Remember that, or you’ll be vomiting for the rest of your life.’
Florenza stared up at Quintana and something passed between them as she nodded solemnly and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘And Tippideaux of Paladozza, the Provincaro De Lancey’s daughter, has the prettiest face in Charyn,’ she continued to inform them all. ‘Not you. So don’t believe a word your mother says.’

Quintana of Charyn, Melina Marchetta

You should take care, Pakayla Biehn

“It is the destiny of stars
to collapse.”

Neil deGrasse Tyson, Cosmos: A Spacetime Odyssey (via narcissablck)

SPACE WITCH (listen)

Vespers Lisa Gerrard & Patrick Cassidy | Eros Ludovico Einaudi | I Was Born For This Austin Wintory | Amber Craig Armstrong | Undiscovered Colors The Flashbulb | Meditation In An Emergency Susanne Sundfør | Lords Of Kobol Bear McCreary, feat. Raya Yarbrough | Core Chant Meredith Monk | Imperatrix Mundi Position Music | Waiting Between Worlds (Instrumental) Zack Hemsey | Dionysus Jocelyn Pook | Izgrejala Vas


no but imagine Natasha having to take these photos for this damn cover like there’s a professional photographer and everything and she almost kinda enjoys it but then she realises Clint has snuck into the studio and is laughing his ass off in the corner but he’s also kind of turned on even though he would never ever admit it and five seconds after that photo above was taken she was chasing him out of the studio in her lacy underwear threatening to kill him with her bare hands


The Secret History AU | Magical Realism

It was only in late January - after Henry’s account of the bacchanal - that I understood what I was seeing. Ghosts in the library, flowers sprouting in Camilla’s footsteps, the insubstantial wings that flickered behind Bunny’s back in certain lights. There was some debate between Francis and Henry, I believe, over whether the wings were meant to represent martyrdom or, Dantesque, a manifestation of some demonic energy.

"Meant by whom?" Camilla asked one afternoon when their argument had become too heated for us to drown out with our Parcheesi game.

Neither of them had an answer for her; Francis only waved a hand and said something lofty about omens and Greek sensibility. I remember thinking, at the time, that there was nothing out of the ordinary about their response, but now - after all that happened subsequently - I wonder whether the corner of Henry’s mouth didn’t quirk up a fraction, knowingly, almost imperceptibly.

For me, at least, the most worrisome thing was that we could never tell how much anyone else saw. The world had changed irrevocably in the months since the bacchanal, but it seemed that we six were the only people who could see it. Other students’ eyes slid past the wonders we were becoming - Camilla’s flowers, Bunny’s wings, the way dust particles sparked and threw off their own light whenever Francis was near, and the look - could I have been imagining it? - that passed between Charles and Francis whenever Charles caught the dust in his hands and blew it back at him. Even Julian, for all his talk of the sublime, only laughed when Camilla tried, slyly, to bring up the topic.

Of all of us, only Henry remained unchanged. (I should add, I suppose, though I’m not proud of it, that even I had changed, though exactly how I was never sure. With me, it was less visible - a sort of sixth sense, a spatial awareness of shadows and something always moving in the corner of my eye when I looked in mirrors. The closest I came to understanding what exactly was happening to me was on a snowed-in day in March, when Camilla came into my room at Francis’ house looking for her Greek dictionary and screamed, one hand over her mouth, staring at me like she’d seen a Gorgon. “What?” I asked her. “Camilla, what on earth?” But instead of answering, she fled back down the stairs and wouldn’t speak to me for three days.)

But I digress. It was Henry I was speaking of, Henry with his grey suits and his somber expression, pushing his glasses up on his nose and leaning in to examine whatever new wonder cropped up in the vicinity with the cold, dispassionate air of a weary primary school teacher inspecting the lizard tank to discern whether it was feeding time. “A collective hallucination,” I overheard Charles telling him once, in confidence. “How the hell else do you explain this?”

Henry had chuckled. “‘I seem to see two suns,’” he said, quoting from the Bacchae, “‘and two cities, two wholly different worlds…’ Have you ever entertained the possibility that there might be another world inaccessible to mortals? But after an encounter with the divine, perhaps we might gain the tiniest sliver of window, might be able to see the barest shadow of the Other.”

There was a pause, a swallow, and then Charles said, “That’s seriously fucked, Henry.”

It did sound, to borrow Charles’ words, seriously fucked. But years later, lying in the dark of my bedroom in Plano and drowsing in and out of sleep with a girl lying beside me, her name long forgotten, I dreamed again of Henry at the ravine, of Bunny’s surprised eyes and the pomegranate juice dribbling down his chin. In my dream, Henry was dusting off his hands, and he looked at me suddenly and with such force that I could half-feel my sleeping body jolting in shock.

"Are you happy here?" I asked him. I don’t know what I was trying to say - probably something along the lines of Are you satisfied now, after what you did to us?

But Henry seemed to understand. “Not particularly,” he said, “but you’re not very happy where you are, either.”


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there were over 3,000 lightening strikes in 2 hours last night in the UK

this is a direct result of people complaining about Thor being female. You’ve angered her