Van Gogh Shadow - The artist’s paintings brought to life
I am completely flipping out about how cool this is.
WIN A ‘THE FIFTH ESTATE’ POSTER SIGNED BY BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH!
We’ve got three to give away - one for each of our main social networks.
For a chance to win the Tumblr poster simply like or re-blog this post. We’re also running the competition on Facebook (all you need to do is like or comment on our ‘The Fifth Estate’ post) and for the Twitter one you can enter here.
You only need enter once on each network and winners will be drawn at random. The competition is open worldwide and closes next Monday 21/10/2013. The competition is open worldwide.
Don’t forget you can read our in-depth review of the movie here.
And oh the towering feeling just to know somehow you are near…
Behold, the Cumbergrinch. You see, someone made a Grinch/Khan reference and one thing led to another…
Cloaked Old Woman by Sara Dean
Dress up like a pumpkin-headed monster,
Carry on my wayward son
Powered by the Eye of Harmony
I’m a suspect, I’m a traitor.
No more talk of darkness
I can’t stand to fly
Hey old man, rest your head
You would not believe your eyes.
Travelling man, such secrets to be told
Hold on to me now.
((That wasn’t half-bad.))
You’re hard to hug, tough to talk to
I start humming along to love songs that I didn’t like before
When I see your eyes, I’m a trouble maker
It’s been a long time
You melt like chocolate candy
Look there, good boy
You approached me with an unfamiliar face
I am the best
There’s nothing I want but money and time
My love is like a red rose
I guess you don’t need it
There comes a time
I hear a bird chirping in the sky
You wonder why
It’s a complex puzzle you call you life
More bad weather on the way
You say you want a revolution
You were mine at the time
You’re a falling star
Whoa. The MLA has officially devised a standard format to cite tweets in an academic paper. Sign of the times.
ebooks, Horse. (horse_ebooks). “Leg Butt” 18 Nov 2011, 12:38 PM. Tweet.
Such a huge step forward. I love it. Have to share.
Benedict Cumberbatch — Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness, -
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ‘tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?