PulpRoman added 1 item to My Favourite Books list
A book assigned from school that I ended up reading three more times over the years. A treasure still on my book shelf.
3 years, 6 months ago
PulpRoman added 1 item to My Favourite Books list
I mean this is just perfection the whole way through. I laughed, I thought and I enjoyed every single beat. I've read the play, listened to the audio and watched the movie with my family...its just great.
3 years, 6 months ago
PulpRoman voted for list
Movies..31 Terrifying Horror Films To View (47 movies items)
3 years, 6 months ago
PulpRoman voted for list
Sexy Black Actress...Taraji P. Henson (37 beauty items)
3 years, 6 months ago
PulpRoman voted for list
Funny...Bucketlist...Live Life To The Fullest (27 art items)
3 years, 6 months ago
PulpRoman voted for list
Fictional Characters...Hot Sexy Wonder Woman (49 characters items)
3 years, 6 months ago
PulpRoman voted for list
Yahoo's 100 Movies to See: The Modern Classics (100 movies items)
3 years, 6 months ago
PulpRoman added 1 item to Book Diary 2020 list
How I will cherish you then, you grief-torn nights! Had I only received you, inconsolable sisters, on more abject knees, only buried myself with more abandon in your loosened hair. How we waste our afflictions! We study them, stare out beyond them into bleak continuance, hoping to glimpse some end. Whereas they're really our wintering foliage, our dark greens of meaning, one of the seasons of the clandestine year -- ; not only a season --: they're site, settlement, shelter, soil, abode.
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me against his heart: I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we are barely able to endure, and it amazes us so, because it serenely disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible.
Look: the trees exist; the houses we dwell in stand there stalwartly. Only we pass by it all, like a rush of air. And everything conspires to keep quiet about us, half out of shame perhaps, half out of some secret hope.
For our part, when we feel, we evaporate; ah, we breathe ourselves out and away; with each new heartfire we give off a fainter scent. True, someone may tell us: you're in my blood, this room, Spring itself is filled with you . . . To what end? He can't hold us, we vanish within him and around him.
3 years, 6 months ago