My-dearest-giulia - GIULIA

ACHILLES AND THE LONDON BOY:

Photo Board

Center: James Leicester

Left: Diana Mayor

Center: Henrik Olsen

Left: Theo Fraser, Center: Alexander FitzDonald

Center: Alexander FitzDonald

Left: Theo Fraser, Right: Alexander FitzDonald

Left: James Leicester, Left Center: Henrik Olsen, Right Center: Theo Fraser, Right: Alexander FitzDonald

Back: Diana Mayor, Front: Alexander FitzDonald

Left: Alexander FitzDonald, Center: Theo Fraser, Right: Diana Mayor

Left: Alexander FitzDonald, Center: Diana Mayor, Left: Theo Fraser

Interviewer: What difference in usage would you point out in these three languages [Russian, English, French], these three instruments?

Nabokov: Naunces. If you take framboise in French, for example, it’s a scarlet color, a very red color. In English, the word raspberry is rather dull, with perhaps a little brown or violet. A rather cold color. In Russian it’s a burst of light, malinovoe; the word has associations of brilliance, of gaiety, of ringing bells. How can you translate that?

- Vladimir Nabokov, Think, Write, Speak: Uncollected Essays, Reviews, Interviews and Letters to the Editor. Bryan Boyd and Anastasia Tolstoy, Eds.

An Ode to Pools of Moonlight

Shimmering lace

Falls to the floor,

Like a spool of silk

Unraveling,

Revealing a dimension

Not thought of,

Not seen.

The stars melt into your waterfall

That ebbs and flows

In turn

With the tide.

A million darlings wish on your missiles,

Your projectiles of light,

Falling through the sky.

Your same image

Reflects upon the Earth,

Ever shining,

Above us all

Like a silver thread

Connecting humanity.

An Ode to Rays of Sun

Sweet, mellifluous rays of sunlight

seep through every crack, every seam

invading every crevice, every nook

until there is no space for night.

A million threads,

golden as fresh honey,

bright as a thousand suns,

tether me to the sky.

The shine of silk or velvet,

the beauty of a field of dandelions,

the yellow light,

sends a haze over everything,

obscuring all that is not good.

The morning is acissmus,

the night, a palimpsest.

Until you see the stars.

Oh, the stars deserve their own poem.

I cannot do them justice as a simple end to another.

How can one call themselves human without being enamored with the heavens?

PICNIC AT HANGING ROCK 1975 | dir. Peter Weir  

- Sylvia Plath, from 'Ariel'

To learn that

one who speaks of

such that is different from their actions

is an idiot,

to entertain the notion

of facing you.

Why?

Who are you?

"To define is to limit," you say,

a smirk dancing on your lips.

It is because you know who you are, that you need someone to find out who that is.

For that is what it is

to be worthy of you.

Photo booth photos shared by Alice Oseman

You’re just lovely

Awww, thank you!! Love from Italy!!!

Yours,

Giulia :)

Linguistics, my beloved.

Interviewer: What difference in usage would you point out in these three languages [Russian, English, French], these three instruments?

Nabokov: Naunces. If you take framboise in French, for example, it’s a scarlet color, a very red color. In English, the word raspberry is rather dull, with perhaps a little brown or violet. A rather cold color. In Russian it’s a burst of light, malinovoe; the word has associations of brilliance, of gaiety, of ringing bells. How can you translate that?

- Vladimir Nabokov, Think, Write, Speak: Uncollected Essays, Reviews, Interviews and Letters to the Editor. Bryan Boyd and Anastasia Tolstoy, Eds.