Nat has Fandom ADD and likes too many things for her own good. Serial reblogger of attractive people, pixel crushes, TV shows, movies, comic books, comic book movies, vidya games, funny shit, nerdy shit, other people's art, cats, et al. Sometimes posts art drawn by herself. Though very seldom NSFW there is a lot of gay dudes making out on this blog so please take note if that is/isn't your thang. Sidebar image by Dead End Thrills.
A group which almost became historic
Let them come to our aid or let them not come, what does it matter? Let us die here to the last man
Congratulation to France for being the 14th country to legalize gay marriage nationwide . (wait?)
I like this! Another!
➽ Combeferre’s smile when Enjolras joins in with the singing.
Jean Prouvaire was a tad more mellow than Combeferre. He actually called himself Jehan…Jean Prouvaire was in love, cultivated a flower in a pot, played the flute, wrote poetry, loved the people, pitied womankind, wept for children, confused God and the future in the same trusting attitude, and blamed the Revolution for having caused a royal head to roll, that of André Chénier. His voice was unusually soft but would suddenly become manly. He was scholarly to the point of erudition and almost an orientalist. He was good, above all; and, in a way that is perfectly straightforward for those who know how closely goodness borders on greatness, he preferred the great in matters of poetry. He was fluent in Italian, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew; and this served him to read only four poets: Dante, Juvenal, Aeschylus, and Isaiah…He liked to stroll through fields of wild oats and cornflowers and was almost as involved with clouds as he was with events. His mind had two modes, one to do with man, the other to do with God…All day long he pored over social questions: wages, capital, credit, marriage, religion, freedom of thought, freedom of choice in love, education, crime and punishment, poetry, freedom of association, property, production and distribution, the enigma of life here below that casts its shadow over the human anthill; and at night he would gaze at those enormous beings, the stars. Like Enjolras, he was an only son and rich. He spoke softly, cocked his head to one side, kept his eyes downcast, smiled apologetically, dressed badly, looked a little gauche, blushed at nothing, was extremely shy. Otherwise, fearless.
