Latest Posts by amonrawya - Page 4

listening to strange trails is not enough. i need all that shit to happen to me.

all the spirits that I know I saw, do you see no ghost in me at all?

love like ghosts - lord huron

but i wonder where you are, i call your name into the dark.

frozen pines - lord huron

I took a little journey into the unknown

meet me in the woods - lord huron

when you follow the strange trails, they will take you who knows where

way out there - lord huron

there's a method to my madness there's a secret to this town there's a reason why i'm still living here though i can't think of it right now

the way lord huron sings about immortality and reviving the dead is so enamouring to me,,,, the speaker of the man who lives forever refusing to believe he'll ever die when he has so much love and life in him,,, la belle fleur sauvage content to spend the ages enjoying the wind and sun and rain,,, the ecstasy of "i came back from the edge!" i mean, have you HEARD the TRIUMPH of dead man's hand? this entire verse??

this shit makes me want to woop and holler with joy. like YES!!! LOOK DEATH IN THE EYE AND SAY NO! LIVE FOREVER! our lives ARE too short and i would LOVE to step out of my grave and walk into an endless night.

and he will roam forever, haunting the desert

dead man's hand - lord huron

This is why we are fighting the capitalist system and why we support Luigi. His name was Cole Schmidtknecht. Look him up, he was young. He died of ASTHMA because he couldn't afford his inhaler due to the greed of insurance companies. He could be your brother, your best friend, etc.

tiktok refugees i believe you are few but it is VITAL that you know on tumblr you can speak freely. kill. die. sex. fuck. you can say things here

do you think that once the hobbits got back to the shire they realised they needed to slow their walking speed because they'd gotten used to walking a lot quicker around the tall folks for the months of the quest

well look who it is. my old friend. the conses of my quences.

A character concept that I'm actually surprised I haven't seen more, now that I think about it:

A character with a tragic past who's beautiful in an unthreatening, pitiful sort of way, who goes "wait hold on, people think I'm cute?" and immediately goes drunk with power. Having a whole villain arc getting corrupted by the power of being just so tragic and pathetic that people can't be mad at them. Someone who's been accustomed to always being the one who's blamed and punished no matter whose fault the problem was suddenly discovering that actually they could get away with murder by being so big-eyed and sad.

And once they figure out that they can just Poor Little Meow Meow their way out of anything, they do. Going from being genuinely skittish and timid into pretending to do so merely as an act, manipulating the shit out of everyone and avoiding all suspicion because Look How Sad And Wet And Pathetic I Am, of course they couldn't do any harm to anyone ever.

And if one person finally does see right through that act and puts puzzle pieces together of how there's been just too many suspicious coincidences and accidents that only one person would actually benefit from, they confront the Tragic Little Act directly, one-to-one, to say "I'm fucking onto you and your shit"

And suddenly they completely snap out of their timid, pathetic presentation to give a big, wide, sickening smile like "no-one's ever going to believe you."

Righty-ho! The name’s Criss, I’m 18 years old and I like croissants, hence the name. I was apart of the fandom way back when, not so much anymore, but I’ve been dragged back into it unwillingly. I’ve wanted to draw this piece for a right long time, so here it is! Enjoy my debut

I can't believe the horse is back in the fucking hospital

god i really fucking love the dúnedain, particularly the rangers. just as like. a concept. a people. an actual part of the story.

they defend the shire, without the hobbits knowing, because they're doing what they can to keep it untouched by evil and the world at large. they sing and they love dancing and theyre all Tall. theyre almost all that is left of númenor. they do not seek payment for what they do--their cause is singular, and that is to fight against the very evil that brought their people to middle earth in the first place. they're often strange and they're certainly offputting to those who do not know them but in all we see of them, they clearly have close connections with one another. they can live for over a hundred years. they absolutely crash in rivendell half the time. their leader is playing a lead role in beren and luthien part 2.

god just. the rangers!!!

“I know nothing about British or American imperialism in the Far East that does not fill me with regret and disgust, I am afraid I am not even supported by a glimmer of patriotism in this remaining war.”

- JRR Tolkien, Letters, p. 115

hyperfixation please stay with me long enough to complete the project. hyperfixation do not fade. hyperfixation finish what you started for the love of god

lucy talks to rabadash before aslan judges him.

she never knew him well—she's never been very interested in any of her sister's suitors, not unless she's certain she'll need to step in, and he seemed reasonable enough, if smug and rather small in personality when he visited cair paravel. she didn't understand why susan wanted to go to calormen, but she'd never stop her sister from something that might make her happy, and edmund was going with her, so it's not like anything could go wrong. and anyway, someone needed to stay at cair paravel while peter went to the north. lucy would rather have gone with peter, but she'd also rather susan not be alone in the south. susan's alone all too often while the rest of them venture out across narnia. it's only fair she gets to spread her own wings a little.

they never thought anything could go wrong, no matter what the reputation of the tisroc. but then suddenly the splendour hyaline is spotted at the mouth of the harbor, and the raven is bringing her news both joyous and grievous in turn of her siblings' northern flight, and now there's a stag come to tell her that rabadash and a company two hundred strong have come to lay siege to anvard. lucy has an idea what he's crawled out of calormen for, and it's nothing to do with archenland. judging by the sick look on her sister's pale face, susan can guess well enough herself.

it's that look that has lucy mounting up beside edmund and riding out to anvard at double time. there is very little she wouldn't do for her family, and the lion help anyone who is the cause of her sister's distress. in the end, it's probably better it was edmund who fought rabadash in battle, because lucy's not so sure she'd have spared him.

the morning before he is to be judged, she escorts herself to the chambers where he is confined, a knife in each hand, and locks the door behind her. he is unbound, but the look in her eye keeps him seated in the chair where she finds him.

"i should like you to know," she tells him, not bothering with proper greetings—he does not deserve them, after all—as she leans against the arm of the chair opposite his, "that your cowardly plan would never have succeeded, even without the warning."

rabadash sneers at her, and not for the first time, lucy wonders how he ever conducted himself to be anything more than the ass that he is.

"narnia's high king is a fool and a craven," he scoffs. "he never would have attacked the great land of calormen and my father, the tisroc, may he live forever, over something so trifling as a mere sister."

this is not his first mistake, but he is lucky that it isn't his last. lucy's face goes very still and very stern, and rabadash glimpses for one terrifying moment why the narnians all call her valiant. why she is named for the sea, the harsh and changeable mistress, and the flowers that grow back first after wildfires.

"i wasn't actually talking about peter," she says, her voice chillingly light, all pretense and formality dropped, "though if you think he wouldn't have marched on tashbaan to save our sister, you're a much bigger fool than i thought."

her tone makes it perfectly clear just how much of him she thought, and it certainly wasn't very highly at all.

she strides forward to stand before him, which would be a very foolish thing to do in a company of an unbound and dangerous prisoner if that prisoner were braver than rabadash and lucy were anyone else, and leans down to meet his eye. she's not very tall, queen lucy, and yet to him she seems like a giant—terrible and beautiful in an entirely different way than her sister. she's so close he can see a long white scar on her neck, can smell horse and leather and chainmail and clean sweat, can see how her hair is bound back for convenience and not beauty, and her hands are rough and capable.

he is aware, suddenly, that he is afraid. that perhaps he has been since she entered the room.

"know this, son of tashbaan," says queen lucy the valiant, and the smile on her lips does not at all match her eyes. "if you had laid even the tip of one finger on my sister, the queen, i would have skinned you alive."

she leans back just enough for him to breathe, and he gasps with it.

"and do you know what?" she asks cheerfully.

he doesn't want to know. she tells him anyway.

"i really don't think peter would have stopped me."

4th of October: Crown / An Ceathramh Latha dhen Dàmhair: Crùn

English Translation:

Unlike his forebears, Thorin wore no crown. The people of Erebor placed their trust in him and he would not lead them astray, but when they came with a crown - forged in the halls they built in the west - as a way to honour his leadership, he refused them.

As a king in exile, Thorin would not bear any crown until he sat upon the throne of his fathers'. In the same way he kept his beard short, in memory of those lost to the dragon's fire, he remained unadorned in the traditional garb of his royal line.

Not until the mountain was theirs once more and the loss of their past washed out would he do so. Thorin took the crown made for him and placed it above the seat, hewn from the strong mountain rock, where he spoke to his people.

"Let it there rest," he said, "and every day I will work to reach its honour."

For in his heart, Thorin felt less than worthy to wear any crown, beggar-prince that he had been.

Scottish Gaelic Translation:

Aocoltach ris a sinnsearan, cha robh crùn air Thòrin. Chuir an t-sluaigh Erebor earbs air agus cha robh e ‘s gun cuireadh e iad air seachran. Ach nuair a thàinig iad le crùn, air dèanamh san tallachan a thogadh anns an Iar, mar onarachadh dha, cha ghabh e e.

Mar rìgh fògraich, cha robh Thòrin airson crùn a bhith air mus do sheas e air an rìgh-chathair nan athraichean. Anns an aon dòigh gun robh e a’ cumail na fheòsag goirid, cha bhiodh na aodaich rìoghail traidiseanta air mar chuimhneachan de dhaoine a chaidh a losgadh san teine an nathair-sgiathaich. Cha dèanadh e gus a bha a’ bheinn aca a-rithist.

Chuir Thòrin an crùn a bha air cruthachadh dha agus shuidhe e e air os chionn an rìgh-cathair a rinn an t-sluaigh às na clachan. An àite far am biodh e a’ bhruidhinn riutha.

“Leig an sin e,” thuirt e, “agus gach latha, obraich mi gus an urrainn dhomh an urram sin a’ ruigse.”

Air sgàth, anns a chridhe, cha robh Thòrin a’ faireachdainn gun robh e airidh air crùn sam bith—prionnsa dhìol-dèirce a bha e uaireigin.

3rd of October: Durin's Day / An Treasamh Latha dhen Dàmhair: Là Dhurin

English Translation:

In the early years after the dragon came, the Dwarves of Erebor set their eyes on survival. Much was lost to them during this time, cultural and religious customs they failed to sustain in their wanderings.

As soon as they had homes once again, mines to work in and forges to fire, Thorin looked to these things for the final missing piece in their lives. His nephews, growing fast, had never experienced Durin's Day in any way other than that of the Blue Mountains.

He heard Erebor in their speech, saw it in the style of their clothes, and even in the weapons they favoured, but so much of his nephews' cultural references lay elsewhere. He wished for them to understand Durin's Day through the eyes of their own culture.

Thus, ten years since Erebor had seen its last Durin's Day, her people put on a feast in Thorin's Halls the like of which was rarely seen. They worked tirelessly to have everything right: musicians woke up old ballads, bakers brought back old delicacies, and the elders gathered to pass their folktales onto the new generations. The exiles.

Another wound was healed that night, another wrong put right. Thorin watched over the festivities as Fili and Kili learnt how to sing a traditional Erebor hymn and thought of his own childhood.

Finally, everyone came together on the stone slopes before the gates of their halls to watch the last vestiges of the sunset fade from the sky behind them and the autumn moon rise in the eastern horizon. For a precious few minutes, both lights lingered together, before the sun was overcome at last.

Thorin stood with his arm around Dis and the boys by their legs, wide-eyed with their first Durin's Day beads braided carefully in their hair. They were't likely to sleep tonight.

The towering stature of the Misty Mountains blocked it from view, but Thorin knew - could see - beyond their white peaks lay Erebor, bathed in the silver light of Durin's moon.

Maybe he started it, or perhaps they all did so at the same time, but slowly and quietly, their low Dwarven voices rose into the sky with a song of home-sickness on their lips. A mourning song.

Oh, far over the Misty Mountains cold...

Scottish Gaelic Translation:

Anns na bliadhnaichean a chaidh seachad as dèidh don nathair-sgiathach tighinn, thoirt na Troichean Erebor an sùilean air mairsinneach. Chaill iad tòrr tron àm seo, nòsan cultarach is creideamh nach do chùm iad beò anns am fuadan aca.

Cho luath ‘s a bha dachaighean aca a-rithist, mèinnean a bhith ag obair anns agus ceàrdaichean a chuir teinne anns, chaidh Thòrin don rudan seo a’ sireach am pìos mu dheireadh air fhàgail bho am beathannan sa Bheinn Ònaranach. A’ fàs cho àrd a-nist, cha robh na mic a pheathar eòlach idir air an dòigh dhen Là Dhurin ach an dòigh na Beanntan Ghorm.

Chuala e Erebor san dòigh-bhruidhinn aca, san stoidhle aodach, eadhon san arm a bha an dithis measail air. Ach leis na rudan beaga, chunnaic e gun robh sin a’ tighinn bho àitichean eile. Bha e airson ‘s gum biodh iad a’ tuigsinn Là Dhurin tron shùilean an cultar aca fhèin.

Air an adhbhar sin, deich bliadhna seach gun do chunnaic Erebor an Là Dhurin mu dheireadh, chuir an t-sluaigh aice seòin air dòigh nach fhaca iad gu tric anns na Tallachan Thòrin. Dh’obraich iad gu cruaidh airson a h-uile rud a bhith ceart: dh’èirich ceòladairean seann balantan, rinn bèicearan seann biadh fìnealta, agus chruinneach na daoine aosmhor ri chèile airson am beul-aithris aca a thoirt don ghinealaichean ùra. Na fògraich.

Shlànaich gort eile an oidhche sin, rud eile a chuir ceart. Choimhead Thòrin air an subhachas mar a dh’ionnsaich Fìli is Kìli laoidh traidiseanta Erebor a sheinn agus smaointeach e air na làithean anns an robh e fhèin beag.

Mu dheireadh thall, thàinig a h-uile duine ri chèile a-mach air na slèibhtean mu bheul an geata nan tallachan. Choimhead iad air dol fodha na grèine san speur air an cùlaibh, an solas a’ dol às beag air bheag. Agus gealach an foghair a’ tighinn suas san fàire Ear. Airson beagan mionaidean prìseil, dh’fhuirich an dà sholas anns an speur ri chèile mus do dh’fhalbh a’ ghrian.

Sheas Thòrin le a gàirdean timcheall a phiuthar, Dìs, agus na bhalaich ri taobh nan casan. Bha na sùilean drileach aca a’ coimhead mòr, agus bha a’ chiad grìogagan Là Dhurin a bh’ aca air pleatach anns am falt. Cha bhiodh e comasach gun cadail iad a-nochd.

Cha b’ urrainn dha a’ faicinn tro na Beanntan Àird a’ Cheò, ach bha fios aige gun robh Erebor air a seasamh dìreach thar air na mullaichean gheala, lannrach anns an t-solas ghealach Dhurin.

Is docha gun do thoiseach esan e, no ‘s docha gun do rinn iad uile e aig an aon am, ach gu slaodach agus gu samhach, chaidh na guthan ìosal troiche dhan speur le òran chianalais air an bilean.

Ò thar na Beanntan Àird fhuar a’ Cheò...

2nd of October: Light / An dàrna latha dhen Dàmhair: Solas

English Translation:

Thorin knew beauty, perfection, could recognise the mark of true craftsmanship with ease. Though still young in the years of Dwarves, he studied at the side of their greatest smiths, deep in the halls of Erebor before the dragon came, and learnt the true meaning of creation.

The forges of Men lacked skill and care; working on them brought him no satisfaction, only a pittance in his hand and scorn on the road. Reaching the Blue Mountains was a relief to his people and to Thorin but they did not relish to live on the charity of others.

Their prince would not forget the glory and honour they came from. They established halls of their own in the west and raised themselves out of ruin, enough that many among Thorin's folk lost all desire to seek for their lost homeland again.

For their sake, and the sake of his siblings, Thorin spoke little of it - choosing to look ahead rather than live looking back. It did not stop the dreams or the memories, nor quell his anger. Never again will we be beggars, turned from the door like animals.

Oft did Thorin go among their smiths, seeking the familiarity of a hammer in the hand and the heat of the fire on his face.

But eyes the light of the Arkenstone had seen could not easily forget its radiance, nor find equal in dull and dusty gems. In his dreams, it lay buried beneath the dragon's paws, forever in the dark within walls once strewn with firelight.

The Arkenstone. The heart of the mountain, they called it. He held its light closely, tightly, and allowed his hope to live on in its glow.

(Sorry this one is shorter, I'm working tonight and don't have a lot of time to translate it!)

Scottish Gaelic Translation:

Bha Thòrin eòlach air àlainneachd, snas. Dh’fhaodadh e ag aithneachadh comharra fhìor cheàirde gu furasta. Ged a bha e òg fhathast ann am beatha nan troichean, dh’ionnsaich e ri taobh na goibhnean as motha a bh’ aca, anns na h-uaimhean ìsle, aosmhoire Erebor mus tàinig an nathair-sgiathach, agus dh’ionnsaich e am fior ciall chruitheachd.

Bha na ceàrdaichean gun sgil is nàistinn. Cha tug e toileachadh dha a bhith ag obair orra idir. Cha d’fhuair e dad ach priobaid na làimh agus tàir bhuapa air an rathad. Nuair a ràinig iad na Beanntan Ghuirm, b’ e faochadh don t-sluaigh aige agus ris fhèin, ach cha robhar measail air a bhith a’ fuirich air carantas.

Cha dhìochuimhneach am prionnsa a’ ghlòir is onaraich a bh’ aca. Thog iad tallachan dhaibh fhèin anns an Iar agus thog iad fhèin a-mach à lom-sgrios. B’ e sin gu leòr dha tòrr dhen t-sluaigh Thòrin a bhith gan caill am miann a bhith a’ sireach an tìr-dhàimh aca a-rithist.

Air an son, agus air a phiuthar is a bhràthair, cha bhruidhinn Thòrin mu dheidhinn gu tric. Choimhead e air adhart seach a bhith beò a’ coimhead air ais. Cha do stad sin na h-aislingean, na chuimhneachain, no chuir mùch air a fhuath. Cha bhith sinn nar dìolachan-dèirce a-riamh a-rithist, feumach air taic mar gun robh beathaichean a bh’ annainn.

Chaidh Thòrin gu tric a-measg na goibhnean aca, a’ sireach cinnt dhen t-òrd na làimh is teas an teine air an t-aodann. Ach cha b’ urrainn sùilean a chunnaic solas an Arkenstone dhìochuimhneachadh an deàrrsaidh no lorg an aon rud ann an leugan luaireanta, ràsanaiche. Anns na aislingean bha i adhlaicte fon smàg an nathair-sgiathach, anns an dorchadas, ann an tallachan a bha air lìonadh aon uair le solas an teine, gu sìorraidh brath.

An Arkenstone. Cridhe na Beinn, chuir iad oirre. Ghlèidh e an solas faisg, gu daingean, agus leig a dhòchas a bhith beò anns a deàrrsadh.

(Duilich gu bheil am fear seo nas beaga, tha mi air a bhith ag obair a-nochd agus cha robh àm gu leòr agam airson eadar-theangachadh a dhèanamh! Bidh mearachdan ann a sheo agus bheir mi sùil a-màireach air haha)

1st of October: Mountain / A' chiad latha dhen Dàmhair: A' bheinn

English Translation:

Since the day the dragon came, it seemed to Thorin he saw the mountain clearer with every step he took away from it, with each mile he and his family led the people of Erebor west, their backs to the mountain, its form in his mind grew firmer.

They toiled in strange lands, selling their skills like simple trades-folk instead of the masters they were. How low we are fallen, the young prince would seethe, still proud despite their loss.

Thorin's people had not been long in connecting Thror's hoard to the dragon's attack; the first to do so turned their backs on him, choosing to join their kin in the Iron Hills than suffer the Wilds under a leader they did not trust. Those who kept faith and remained, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, Thorin vowed to protect.

Even before the disappearance of Thrain, a shift came in Durin's Folk. They began to seek guidance from their prince, following his lead and rallying behind the dream he described for them: a new home in the west, far from hardship and strife where they may rebuild all that was lost.

But always in his mind lay the same thought, the mountain, the mountain, the mountain. In his dreams he looked on it from afar. Watching. Waiting. He would bring his people home, redeem his family for their grandfather's sickness that brought them all to ruin.

The birth of his sister's sons came in a time of peace. The older they grew, an ever-increasing choir that sung with the drums from the deep followed him....the mountain, the mountain, the mountain, they cried.

Oh the lonely mountain...

Scottish Gaelic translation:

Bhon dearbh là a thàinig an nathair-sgiathach, chunnaic Thorin a’ bheinn nas soilleire le gach ceum a thog e air falbh, leis a h-uile mìle a stiùiridh e is a theaghlach an t-sluagh Erebor gu Iar, an dromannan ris a’ bheinn, dh’fhàs a cumadh cruaidh anns na inntinn.

Dh’obraich iad ann an dùthchannan neònaiche, a’ reic na sgilean aca mar gun robhar luchd-malairt farasta seach na maighstirean a bhathar. Cho ìosal a tha sinn air tuiteam, smaoinich am prionnsa òg le fuath geur, fhathast moiteil a dh’aindeoin an calltachd.

Cha tug e fada gus an cur an t-sluaigh a h-uile rud ri chèile: sabaid an nathair-sgiathach agus tasgaidh Thror. Tionndaidh na ciad feadhainn an aghaidh an Rìgh agus thagh iad a bhith a’ dol gu na luchd-dàimh aca anns na Cnuic Iarainn, an àite a bhith a’ fulang san dùthaich fhiadhaich fo cheannard nach robh earb annta ann. Ghealladh Thòrin gun dìon e na feadhainn nach deach, a bha a dh’fhantainn agus a chumail creideas leotha.

Eadhon ron thuras Thràin nach tàinig e air ais bho fhathast, thàinig atharrachadh air na muinntir Durin. Thoiseach iad a’ sireadh stiùireadh bhon phrionnsa, a bhith ga leantainn agus a’ tighinn ri chèile air cùlaibh an aislinge a bha e ag iarraidh dhaibh: dachaigh ùr san Iar, fada air falbh bho dhorradas agus strì far am faodar a h-uile rud a bha air caill a thogail a-rithist.

Ach an-còmhnaidh anns na inntinn bha an aon smaoin, a’ bheinn, a’ bheinn, a’ bheinn. Anns na aislingean, choimhead e air fad às. A’ coimhead. A’ feitheamh. Thoireadh e an t-sluaigh aige dachaigh agus cuir ceart gach rud a rinn a sheanair a thoirt iad uile gu lom-sgrios.

Thàinig breith mhic a phiuthar ann an àm ciùin ach mar a dh’fhàs iad suas, dh’fhàs guth còisir anns na inntinn a bha a’ seinn leis na drumaichean às na h-uamhan. A’ bheinn, a’ bheinn, a’ bheinn, dh’èigh iad.

Ò a’ bheinn ònaranach...

Amon Rawya

(Tha mi fhathast ag ionnsachadh na Gàidhlig - bithibh snog XD)

As a female athlete myself, I just want to quickly appreciate how George R.R Martin writes his women who fight. It’s never, “she wanted to be a warrior so she worked harder than everyone and eventually she could beat all the boys.” He actually gives his characters strengths and weaknesses—as well as cultural ties to fighting— and he makes these traits enhance the already existing plot lines these characters follow. The mental game is also always just as important, if not more, than the physical game, which I’ve found is true in sports and probably much more true in actual life-threatening situations.

Arya is a small child. She’s nine, she’s skinny; she would probably never excel at being a knight, so instead she learns a different type of fighting. She’ll never overpower anyone, but she can be quick and sneaky and use her left hand which most people don’t know how to fight against. Also, I would argue that Syrio’s teachings about “looking with your eyes” were far more important to her than the physical part of water dancing. Most of the time she isn’t using her skills to directly fight people, but to run away, to spy on people, to catch food and survive. Syrio is her friend, Needle is Jon Snow’s smile, etc. Arya learning how to use her stature to her advantage is part of a greater connection to her identity and the people who helped her.

Brienne is stronger than most men, but she faces constant misogyny because of that (which is all too realistic). She constantly faces internal battles with her own self-image and harassment wherever she goes. She gets taught to use men’s pride and anger to her advantage:

“Old Ser Goodwin was long in his grave, yet she could hear him whispering in her ear. Men will always underestimate you, he said, and their pride will make them want to vanquish you quickly, lest it be said that a woman tried them sorely. Let them spend their strength in furious attacks, whilst you conserve your own. Wait and watch, girl, wait and watch (AFFC Brienne 7)”

Finally, “no chance, and no choice” is her most memorable line for a reason. It’s not her martial prowess that makes her a great character; it’s her bravery and honor.

Cultural ties are also so important to the reasons many women in the series fight. Asha is Balon’s last remaining child when all her brothers are dead and gone. Of course she knows how to fight and sail. Her tension with Theon is less about her showing off and more about her proving how much she actually knows her people while he doesn’t (of course that isn’t Theon’s fault but that’s a whole other post). The Mormont women learned to fight because they historically had to fight off invaders; the Sand snakes’ skills show their connection to Oberyn, etc.

Anyway I just love how George uses fighting to enhance his characters’ personalities and not define them. None of them are physically or mentally infallible, and none are exempt from misogyny. They just learned to do something that empowers and protects them despite society’s expectations. George’s writing of women is definitely not perfect, but this is something I really appreciate.

everyone needs to watch this movie

new favorite YouTube comment just dropped

Dame Maggie Smith as Muriel Donnelly The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (2015)