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Angular and elegant, he was precariously thin, with nervous hands and a shrewd albino face and a short, fiery mop of the reddest hair I had ever seen. I thought (erroneously) that he dressed like Alfred Douglas, or the Comte de Montesquiou: beautifully starchy shirts with French cuffs; magnificent neckties; a black greatcoat that billowed behind him as he walked and made him look like a cross between a student prince and Jack the Ripper
(The Secret History - Donna Tartt)
Caleb Landry Jones as Francis Abernathy.We don’t run much to looks in my family, you know… Maybe that’s why I tend to equate physical beauty with qualities with which it has absolutely nothing to do. I see a pretty mouth or a moody pair of eyes and imagine all sorts of deep affinities, private kinships. Never mind that half a dozen jerks are clustered round the same person, just because they’ve been duped by the same pair of eyes.
Nike of Samothrace
henry winter is already my forever favourite.
nobody is really surprised about this.
i. heartstopper - emilíana torrini. | ii. torture me - metric. | iii. damaris - patrick wolf. | iv. glittering cloud - imogen heap. | v. signs - bloc party. | vi. rebel prince - rufus wainwright. | vii. ritual - ellie goulding. | viii. i’ll see you in my dreams - the national.