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hogibebeleri · 4 years

Text

eski model listesi

bunu temizleyip yürürüz diycektim ama çok varmış o yüzden eski ünlülere isimlere bakmak için buraya bırakıyom kalsın sdfojdsoğjısıdjğods

ay daraltçam bu ne aq

- A -

Aaron Johnson - Leo Constantine

Aaron Tveit - Ezekiel Wymond

Abbey Lee Kershaw - S

Adam Brody - Cedric P. Powell

Adelaide Kane - Alana Windsor

Aidan Turner - Blaise Lynch

Alicia Vikander - Lily Marzia Lewis

Alona Tal - Claire Jenkins

Alycia Debnam Carey - Faith Franchot

Amber Heard - Edith Mori de Oliveira & Aureola Diana

Amy Poehler - Apple Corin

Ana de Armas - Riley Polanco

AnnaSophia Robb - Olivia Maeve

Andrew Garfield - Christen Austen

Andrew Lincoln - Desmond

Andy Samberg - Milo Dexter

Anna Christine Speckhart - Maria Sparrow

Anna Kendrick - June Lynwood

Ansel Elgort - Landon Scotty

Armie Hammer - Nikolai Fedosov

Ash Stymest - Wilford Grayson

Ashley Benson - Lexie Mallaith

Astrid Berges-Frisbey - Anthea Harrison

Aubrey Plaza - Zoya Everdene

- B -

Barbara Palvin - Annie Lancaster

Bella Heathcote - Fern Weinberg

Bill SkarsgÃ¥rd - Hermes Wolfhart

Boyd Holbrook - Hugo Montague

Bradley Cooper - Adonis Dard

Brett Dalton - Aldous Riordan

Brian J. Smith - Ä°.

Brit Marling - Euria Madlyn

- C -

Candice Accola - Evanora Eckhart

Carey Mulligan - Ophelia Delfino

Charlie Cox - Darcy Hemingway

Charlie Weber - Wardell Jon

Chloe Bennett - Miroslawa Waljewski

Chris Pine - Azure Welkin

Chris Pratt - Dux Stanton

Chris Wood - Atlas

Christian Bale - Mars Brant

Christian Cooke - Conor Lynton

Chyler Leigh - Cassandra Evans

Claire Holt - Karyna Gwen

Clark Gregg - Christopher Hart

Courtney Eaton - Night Haven

- D -

Daisy Ridley - Monica Myles

Dakota Johnson - Barbie Riley

Dan Stevens - Damien Delacroix

Daniel Radcliffe - Michael Genim

Daniel Sharman - Clementine Quinton

Danielle Campbell - Calista Apostolou

David Tennant - Hunter Chandra

Dianna Agron - Isis Chamberlain

Domhnall Gleeson - Jules E. Lincoln

Dominic Cooper - Quentin J. Lloyd

Dominic Sherwood - Dimitri Wolf

Douglas Booth - Vasco Delacour

Dylan O''brien - Nathaniel Hawkins

Dylan Sprayberry -Ove Stanford

- E -

Eddie Redmayne - S

Ebba Zingmark - Eloine Heaven

Eiza Gonzalez - Veronika Boleslava

Eleanor Tomlinson - Calleigh Gardenar

Elizabeth Debicki - Pippa Voughan

Elizabeth Henstridge - Gwendoline Cler

Elizabeth Olsen - Corinne Constantine

Eleanor Tomlinson - Calleigh Gardenar

Ella Purnell - Dolu

Elle Fanning - Rosie Van Laren

Ellen Page - Lydia Carrington

Elodie Yung - S

Emeraude Toubia - Elena Dimitriou

Emma Stone - Alexandra Zaleski

Emilia Clarke - Maya Davenport

Emilie De Ravin - Astrid Blanche

Emily Bett Rickards - Ocean Highmore

Emily Blunt - Lilla Arverne

Emily Browning - Ava Marlowe

Emily Deschanel - Hannah Montiel

Emily Didonato - Vera Isabel

Emmy Rossum - Vivian Gardner

Emily Rudd - Antje Griet

Erin Richards - Glory Constance

Eva Green - Verena Gray

Evan Peters - Viktor Chekov

Evangeline Lilly - Blue Marchand

Ewan McGregor - Acse Lemoine

Ezra Miller - Eugene Irwin

- F -

Felicity Jones - Macey Raphaelle

Felix Kjellberg - Silvestre CÃ©sar

Finn Jones - Buster

Freya Mavor - Olivia Fitzgerald

- G -

Gabriel Luna - JosÃ© Espina

Gaia Weiss - Freya Kjellfrid

Gal Gadot - Cerys Ryan

Garrett Hedlund - Vitto Carlevaro

Gemma Arterton - Sabetha Belrossa

Georgina Haig - Calypso

Gigi Hadid - Mitchie Finnegan

Gina Rodriguez - Ida Castillo

Grace Phipps - Mia Kayleigh

Gustaf SkarsgÃ¥rd - Vincent Valente

- H -

Haley Bennett - Graciela de la Fuente

Hannah Simone - S

Harry Lloyd - Valentin Veaceslav

Hayden Christensen - Kristoff E. Petrov

Hayden Panettiere - Skyla Chavira

Hayley Atwell - Carmela di Chimici

Henry Cavill -Â Chester Norton

Hunter Parrish - Francis Rousseau

Hwang Jung Eum - Hana Godfrey

Ian De Caestecker - J.C. Murphy

Isabel Lucas - Helen Ambrosia

- J -

Jack O''Connell - Roy Whesker

Jai Courtney - TÃ©o Teixeira

Jake Johson - Tony Thompson

James Franco - N/ash Carrington

James McAvoy - Sebastian Van Laren

Jamie Chung - Irene Weitz

Jane Levy -Â Elsie Rodgers

Jasmine Sanders -Â Liesje Lijsbeth

Jason Statham - Rafael Romero

Jay Baruchel - Cal J.W. Fox

Jeffrey Dean Morgan - Zed O''Callaghan

Jenna-Louise Coleman - Cecilia D. Chandler

Jennifer Morrison - Penny Black

Jensen Ackles - Florian W. Hoffman

Jeon Jeongguk - Jeon Jeongguk

Jeremy Renner - Dorian Dixon

Jesse Soffer - Grover Alen

Jessica De Gouw - Vera Guthrie

Ji Sung - Yong Jae Sun

JoAnna Garcia Swisher - Pacifica

Joe Gilgun - Desmond Gallagher

Johanna Braddy - Reva Keegan

John Krasinski - Jesse Wescott

Jon Kortajarena - Aaron Anderson

Josefine Frida Pettersen - Dolu

Jude Law - Andrei Pavlov

Julian Morris - Wesley Franklin

Julianne Hough - Madelyn Weaver

- K -

Karen Fukuhara - Yuki Nakashima

Karen Gillan - Emma Fray (<33)

Kate Mara - Tuesday Beckett

Kate Mckinnon - Myrna Morgenstern

Katherine McNamara - Norene Harland

Kaya Scodelario - Quinn Jenae

Keira Knightley - Mystral Roux

Kevin Zegers - Damon Wallner

Kit Harington - Joel Paxton

Kristen Bell - Vivien Rouge

Krysten Ritter - Iris Thorne

- L-

Lauren Cohan - Wonder B.

Leighton Meester - Anastacia Bouvier

Leonardo diCaprio - Jerry Arlexa

Lily Collins - Frankie Chandra

Lily James -Â AnaÃ¯s V. Grimaldi

Lindy Booth - Camilla Weitz

Lindsey Morgan - Zenobia

Lizzy Caplan - Ramona Fade

Logan Lerman -Â Harley Langley

Luana Perez - Elizabeth Burton

Lucy Hale -Â Sheri Payne

Lyndsy Fonseca - Daisy de la Vina

- M -

Mads Mikkelsen - Ä°

Maeve Dermody - Athena Zoega

Maia Mitchell -Â Lynda Stine

Margot Robbie - Josie Lesniewski

Maria Valverde - Valerija Roque

Marie Avgeropoulos - Ljubica Solvej

Marion Cotillard - Marika Lamora

Martin WallstrÃ¶m - Fabio Chepe

Mary Elizabeth Winstead - Amelie Steiner

Matt Hitt - Douglas Roswell

Matt McGorry - Corbin Renwick

Matthew Daddario - Diego Mendoza

Matthew Gray Gubler - Patrick Descoteaux

Max Irons - Marc Janko

Max Riemelt - Ziggy Hildebrand

Melanie Martinez - D

Melissa Benoist - Charlotte Evans

Melissa Fumero - Catherine Winters

Michael Fassbender - Franco Locatelli

Miguel Ãngel Silvestre - Rico A. Moreno

Min Yoongi - Min Yoongi

Morena Baccarin - Tulip Talitha

- N -

Natalie Dormer - Gem Julep

Nick Blood - Isaac Wyatt

Nick Offerman - Alfred Castillo

Nico Mirallegro - Jack Daniels

Nikolaj Coster-Waldau - Theos Volantis

Nina Dobrev - Emmaline Winslow

Norman Reedus - Harley Harford

Noomi Rapace - Yulia Utkin

- O/Ã– -

Olesya Rulin - Ceku BalÄ±m

Olga Kurylenko - Zelda Croft

Olivia Holt -Â Rylee Cantrell

Oscar Isaac - Aldo C. Ferreiro

- Q -

- P -

Paul Rudd - Marco Polo

Paula Patton - Winter Willford

Penelope Mitchell -Â Caitlyn Weatherly

- R -

Rachel McAdams - NavoÅŸ Lancaster

Rashida Jones - Jean Cardellini

Rebel Wilson -Â Lauren Dwyer

Reeve Carney - Dylan Breckendridge

Richard Madden - Tristan Windsor

Rinko Kikuchi - S

Rosario Dawson - Eve Blanchett

Rosamund Pike - Daniela Carlevaro

Rose McIver - Skyler Freestone

Rosie Huntington-Whiteley - Leona Lane

Ruth Negga - Lara Tailler

- S -

Sabrina Carpenter - Louise Linn

Sam Claflin - Mathias Clayton

Sarah Gadon - Nina Buchvarov

Sarah Hyland - Marceline Apostolou

Sebastian Stan - Maximillian di Chimici

Seychelle Gabriel - Leila Beaumont

Scarlett Johansson - Diamontina Dixon

Shailene Woodley - Joy Cappella

Shantel Vansanten - D

Shelley Hennig - Nora Simmons

Sophia Bush - D

Sophie Cookson - Rain Gisbourne

Summer Glau - Rhea Crisanta

- T -

Taron Egerton - Caleb Lysander

Tatiana Maslany - Margo Wiggins & Felicia Makovecz

Taylor Marie Hill - Milla Alexander

Taylor Swift - Melanie Phoenix

Teresa Palmer - Dora Desjardins

Theo James - Keiro Padmore

Tom Ellis - Hector A. Whittemore

Tom Felton - Alpha Rigorous

Tom Hardy - Dito Delfino

Tom Hiddleston - Newton F. Windsor

Tom Holland - Flynn Holdsworth

Tom Mison - Armitage Cromwell

Toni Garrn - Audrey Tyler

Torrey Devitto - D

Travis Fimmel - Forrest Dickson

Tuppence Middleton - Mia Santiago

- U/Ãœ -

- V -

Victoria Justice - Lotus van Boven & Selo

- X -

Xavier Samuel -Â August FridtjofÂ

- W -

Will Smith - Dante di Mercurio

Willa Holland - Ethea Middlesworth

- Y -

- Z -

Zendaya - Izzy McGowan

Zoe Kazan - D

ZoÃ« Kravitz - Thalia Hardy

Zoe Saldana - Kiara Kingsley

Zooey Deschanel - Hailey Montiel

Zoey Deutch - Myra Blackbourne

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readingbooksinisrael · 5 years

Text

Poetry, Short stories and Articles Read This Month

Articles

How anti-Semitism led Shatner and Nimoy to Boldly Go to Hollywood/Nathan Abrams-Probably because I read a whole thesis which included this small topic in it before I read this but it felt very unsatisfactory. It did talk about what of his Jewishness Nimoy put into the character of Spock but mostly it seemed to mourn that Shatner didn’t seem to do that with Kirk. Probably a good read if you’re looking to read something quick on Jews putting their Jewishness into a character (not necessarily Nimoy’s into Spock).

Heinlein’s Juveniles vs. Andre Norton Young Adult Novels/James Davis Nicoll-This was a nice overview of where the two authors differed and how we see them in the modern day. I think I’ll check out an Andre Norton sci fi book despite not liking her prose in the one (non-sci fi) book of hers I read.

Did We ALL Write a Book About Space Elevators? Why Unfortunate Coincidences Happen In Science Fiction/James Davis Nicoll-Too short. It didn’t really explore it’s premise.

Poems

The Immortal/Robert Sanders Shaw-no link available. It’s really bad. It sounds immature.

Short Stories

On Venus, Have We Got a Rabbi/William Tenn-I’m going to admit that despite hearing of this over and over it took a few tries for me to read it. It has a rambling style that was hard for me to get into, especially when I saw how long it was for a short story. What I recommend is listening to the audio as it really gets you in the atmosphere-since the story is written with a very characterized narrator. All that said, after the real story started I got pulled in and I really liked it. 3.5/5 stars

For He Can Creep/Siobhan Carroll-TW: self harm, suicide mention, 18th c. mental hospitals. This was a lot of fun. I really enjoyed the style it was written in-from the POV to the dialogue to the descriptions.

The Thames Valley Catastrophe/Grant Allen-I liked this one. I enjoyed the writing style. TW: body horror 4.2/5 stars

The Doom of London/Robert Barr-I thought I would like this one less than the other because I don’t like the style of breaking up a short story into sections, but after the first section I got pulled in enough to enjoy it. The concept was really cool and the invention concept was also really cool. TW: death, gore?, body horror 4/5 stars

The Tilting Island/Thomas J. Vivian and Grena J. Bennett-I can’t find a link for this one. The beginning started out good but then the authors weren’t able to uphold the suspense in a way that the end was satisfactory. 2.7/5 stars

Finis/Frank Lillie Pollock-I did not like this one. Partially it was because the blurb I read about it was wrong and so I expected the wrong things out of it, but it is also because that while the story centers on the characters the characters don’t have any personalities. 2/5 stars

An Express of the Future/Jules Verne-The blurb for this said that it went missing for many years. I am not surprised because it is not well written at all. It ends with it all being a dream which every kid knows is a bad plot device unless you have a very good excuse. 2/5 stars

The Ray of Displacement/Harriet Prescott Spofford-I would have enjoyed this even with the paragraphs of jumbled science language if it hadn’t been for St. Angel. He appears out of nowhere and it isn’t clear who he is or what he is doing or even how he gets to where the main character is. Unfortunately, the end is centered around him. Other than him I enjoyed the character of Judge Brant and there were some really funny sentences. 2/5 stars

Congealing the Ice Trust/Capt. H.G. Bishop-Again, I can’t find a link. That’s disappointing because this one was fun even if the plot was a bit hard to follow (with the addendum that I was in pain while reading it). 4/5

Lord Beden’s Motor/J.B. Harris-Burland-I’m starting to think that I shouldn’t try to review stories I read while I was woozy with pain (even though I’m reviewing them while in pain too). I think all I can say is that it’s a ghost story and ghost stories just aren’t to my personal taste so it didn’t interest me.

The Death-Trap/George Daulton-no link again. It has that thing of trusting someone immediately cause they seem gentle which I don’t like for many reasons. I wish it concentrated more on the search for the monster and finding it because the monster itself was pretty cool. TW: gore 2.5/5 stars

The Air Serpent/Will A. Page-no link. It’s really cool that this concept existed because with our modern day knowledge it’s impossible outside of high fantasy. Unfortunately for the story, our modern day knowledge of how prey animals work sort of ruined it for me. 3/5 stars

The Monster of Lake LaMetrie/Wardon Allan Curtis-Gotta love the sharp turn into eugenics. It’s a pity because before that the story was really cool. 1/5 stars

The Voice in the Night/William Hope Hodgeson-This was pretty cool. I’m not sure if you shouldn’t read it if you love or hate mushrooms though. Personally, I belong to the second camp, so maybe it’s don’t read it if you’re disgusted by fungi. 3/5 stars

The Land Ironclads/H.G. Wells-It’s definitely interesting to read from a modern perspective. I liked the character of the mc and that the story didn’t wash over the deaths but didn’t describe them in detail either.

The Dam/Hugh S. Johnson-The plot twist is very clever but the building up to it took too long, and the two captains and their rivalry was confusing to me. 2.5/5 stars

Submarined/Walter Wood-I liked it, and I feel like I shouldn’t because it ended pretty violently but I did. Daring and sacrifice and all that is very feel-good, and it was well-written. 5/5 stars

The Purple Terror/Fred M. White-Could we have this without the racism please? It was good except for the underlying racism all throughout. 2/5 stars

Professor Jonkin’s Cannibal Plant/Howard R. Garis-This was definitely a change from the other stories. They were all adult fiction and this is MG fiction. It was okay, nothing special. 3/5 stars

An Experiment in Gyro Hats/Ellis Parker Butler-This continues the sort of humor that’s in the last story but it’s back to adult fiction which, personally, I enjoy more when it comes to this kind of humor. I liked the narrator’s voice. 3.5/5 stars

The Hybrid Hyperborean Ant/Roy L. McCardell-The idea was nice but it could have been better executed. I felt like I was told the story rather than experiencing it. 2/5 stars

Where the Air Quivered/L.T. Meade and Robert Eustace-Pretty cool, but nothing special. 4/5 stars

In Re State vs Forbes/Warren Earle-This was less science fiction and more ghost story. Again, ghost stories don’t really interest me so I can’t review it properly but I found the ending to be far too unrealistic with no explanation for my taste.

Old Dr. Rutherford/D.F. Hannigan-Ugh. The writing itself was fine but I absolutely hated the main character; usually that doesn’t bother me but I hated him so much that it did here. I think it would have been much more interesting if it had been written from Hafiz’s POV instead of an omniscient one. 2/5 stars

Itself/Edgar Mayhew Bacon-This was a really good one. I loved the storytelling. I might try to find more stories by the same author to read. 4.5/5 stars

Citizen 504/Charles H. Palmer-This is interesting in that it’s an early dystopian story. Less interesting in that because it’s an earlier one it has the same plot points of every modern one and wraps up everything neatly with a bow. I wish he’d taken the time to explore the world more. 3/5 stars

The Mansion of Forgetfulness/Don Mark Lemon-Finally a story with a link. It’s a good story to choose to end an anthology on as it’s short and wraps up well but not too nicely (with a bow). Although it’s short and the ending is expected the execution is done well in my opinion. 3.5/5

#booklr #short stories #mine #wrap up #rtm #read this month #poems #articles #july read this month #july rtm #2019 rtm #2019 read this month

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outlikeflynn · 5 years

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My URL! 💕

X: Oh, look - the meme I’m a slut for.

Opinion on;

Character in general: I still know so little about Kida, but they decided that they wanted to wake up to Michael J Fox’s voice every day for the rest of their life, so their power is truly great.How they play them: I think right now she’s preparing to break Flynn’s nose to better resemble the nearest Wanted poster. Good instincts! She will rule Atlantis as tough but fair.The Mun: I still don’t know what TED talks are, and at this point I don’t see the need to find out. Like trigonometry and which electrical wires to touch.

Do I:

RP with them: Ah do, yes.Want to RP with them: I also do, but I feel like Eugene needs to be kept in a cage around her. For his protection.

What is my;

Overall Opinion: I would probably watch Atlantis tomorrow but I get the feeling it’s heavily inspired by Jules Verne, just like Nadia was. Ugh - not a fan. Filling his book with bloody co-ordinates and wasting pages about nothing, i swear...

**Note: Mun’s answer are all to be completely honest. Don’t send url if you don’t want brutal honesty

#Out of Smolder (OOC)#atlantastic

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originaldetectivesheep · 3 years

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Hell Year In Review - Stuff I Mostly Read With The Page Down Key In 2020

Last year, I rejoiced about positive change that came from reading less churny Gutenbergs and more modern authors, more women, and more authors of color from the library. Then the library closed for most of 6 months starting on 11 March.

I read a monstrous 907 book-shaped things this year, in exceptionally great proportion out of the Gutenberg bucket. There was a LOT of churn there: I started the year with 2666 items after the reload alluded to in last year's post and finished with 1761 after processing 1290. There was a lot of pap. There was a lot of extremely bad pap. But it wasn't all pap, and it wasn't all bad.

By way of illustration: those 907 books broke out into 59 modern/physical books, 13 issues of Strange Horizons (no real need to dissect these), and 835 off the Gutenberg pile. Among moderns, women wrote/contributed to 32/59 (54%), authors of color wrote/contributed to 6/59 (10%), and authors in translation furnished 4/59 (7%). Favorites in this small sample looked like:

Catherine Chung - Forgotten Country Elizabeth J. Church - The Atomic Weight of Love Hal Clement - Iceworld Susanna Clarke - Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell J. M. Coetzee - Waiting For the Barbarians Claire G. Coleman - Terra Nullius Pat Conroy - The Lords of Discipline Anne Corlett - The Space Between the Stars Jennine Capo Crucet - Make Your Home Among Strangers Ivan E. Coyote - One In Every Crowd N. K. Jemisin - The City We Became

This was not a bad batch of books to read this year. But, it's about a third the size of the similar haul from 2019, and the Gutenberg haul was so large and so comprehensive as to get a lot of quality material in with the junk. Of 823 limited-authorship titles from Gutenberg, women wrote or contributed to 111 (13%), a better rate than 2019 overall (despite 10 months of library there vs 0), and though authors of color only contributed 7 books (<1%), the 33 translations and non-English-language books represented 4% of the total, again an advance on last year despite 2019's numbers counting the library. The highlights of the Gutenberg side looked like:

Henri Barbusse - The Inferno Aphra Behn - Oroonoko; or, The Royal Slave Lord Byron - Don Juan Willa Cather - The Professor's House Mary Cholmondeley - Red Pottage Kate Chopin - The Awakening Joseph Conrad - Lord Jim Stephen Crane - Wounds in the Rain Ford Madox Ford - No More Parades John Galsworthy - The Forsyte Saga [The Man of Property / In Chancery / To Let] Mary Gaunt - Kirkham's Find Maxim Gorky - Mother Thea Von Harbou - Metropolis Alexander Harris - Settlers and Convicts E. T. A. Hoffman - The Golden Flower Pot Sarah Orne Jewett - The Country of the Pointed Firs Rudyard Kipling - Kim Sinclair Lewis - Kingsblood Royal David Lindsay - The Haunted Woman Edward Lording - There And Back Kálmán Mikszáth - St. Peter's Umbrella L M Montgomery - Anne of Green Gables Frederick Niven - The Flying Years O. E. Rölvaag - Giants in the Earth May Sinclair - Mary Olivier: A Life Olaf Stapledon - Odd John: A Story Between Jest and Earnest Robert Louis Stevenson - The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde Theodor Storm - The Rider on the White Horse H.G. Wells - In The Days Of The Comet H.G. Wells - Mr. Britling Sees It Through H.G. Wells - The War in the Air Oscar Wilde - The Picture of Dorian Gray

There are three Nobel laureates (Kipling, Lewis, Galsworthy) in this list, and two more nominees (Wells, Gorky) who didn't make it to the top, versus only one (Coetzee) in the other. This is also not a bad batch of books to read this year; the rebuild last January to get more non-genre stuff made the highs a lot higher. Sturgeon's Law remains true at all scales and throughout history, but when you read 800 fucking Gutenbooks in a year, you’re going to get a bunch of good in with all of the bad.

This does turn kind of into "comfort in sadness", because many of the other 792 limited-authorship Gutenbooks I read in 2020 were utter trash. I read thirteen things from Albert Dorrington stitching like a hundred uncollected short stories into coherent wholes, and all of them were bad. I had ten books from Edward Dyson, and they were all full of bad dialect. I'm almost thirty volumes deep in various pulps from Emile C. Tepperman that are a lot more entertaining than good. Many of Miles Franklin's twelve books on the list were a pain, as were practically all of Stewart Edward White's twelve mixing spiritualism and old California. Virtually all of Warwick Deeping's thirteen very large gurn piles sucked, and the only use of most of the 30 volumes I had to grind up from William Le Queux was to laugh at them. And finally, I suffered through 80 books by Fergus Hume this year, and got so mad that I wrote a Twitter thread to call him out as the worst possible author in the history of the English language.

However, Hume is over. I'm never going to read/need to read him again. And even if I continue not getting over my feud with the library (I really ought to), the routine that I've established allows me to project good things for the next year. I've got eight more from L M Montgomery, Marjorie Bowen is up next in the "large major" slot after Tepperman, and later in the year I should get to Eugene O'Neill, George Bernard Shaw, Virginia Woolf, and Zane Grey. I'm reading from a limited selection of Dostoevsky on my Kindle right now, and sooner or later should also get to Jonathan Swift, Jules Verne, Mary Shelley (I missed Frankenstein in 2016), Anne Bronte, Herman Melville, Havelock Ellis, George Gissing, and maybe Damon Runyon by this time next year. There are going to be other discoveries like Gaunt, Cholmondeley, and Rölvaag. And yes, I will need to grind through a lot of bad garbage to get to them: but there's still enough good, in all of this, to keep on going.

#meta #criticism #and its probably gonna be another 900 books next year too

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peterguralnick · 7 years

Text

Reading, Writing & Real Life

Sometimes I get asked who or what influenced me most in my deep-seated (and very early) desire to write.

I’ve named books and writers: Tristram Shandy (don’t miss the book, but don’t miss the movie either), Norse mythology, and Henry Green, Alice Munro, Grace Paley and Hubert Selby Jr., Ralph Ellison, Italo Svevo, Sigrid Undset and Zora Neale Hurston. For the last few years I’ve been working on a series of loosely connected short stories suggested by Dawn Powell’s novel My Home Is Far Away, a book that I can best describe as suggesting the tone of Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander transplanted to the world of Winesburg, Ohio. Which could lead me to Hemingway, or Hemingway’s Boat, or – well, I’m sure you get the point.

There were teachers, certainly. Omar Pound (Omar Shakespear Pound, son of Ezra) is the one who stands out the most. He came to Roxbury Latin when I was in the ninth grade and was greeted with almost universal rejection bordering on scorn by my classmates – for his oddity, for his self-determined eccentricities, for his stubborn scruffiness, both personal and intellectual. But for me, and a few others, he provided a wonderful opportunity for self-expression in the two or three extended writing exercises he assigned each week, suggested by a phrase or saying that he provided, of which the only one that comes immediately to mind is, “Only a fool learns from experience.” True? Untrue? I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. But as I recall, I wrote a short story that I hope was as open-ended in a fifteen-year-old way and lent itself as much to individual interpretation as I have intended in my biographies of Elvis, Sam Cooke, and Sam Phillips, or any of the other books that I’ve written.

But there’s still that lingering question: what in the world would lead an eight or nine-year-old kid to want to be a writer – if he couldn’t be a be a Major League baseball player, that is. It was my grandfather, Philip Marson, who taught English for over thirty years at Boston Latin (no, not the same Latin School – it’s complicated), founded and ran Camp Alton (which I would later run) in what he conceived of as a fresh-air expansion of the educational experience, dreamed of having the time one day to finish Finnegans Wake (he finally did at seventy-eight, over his customary breakfast of shredded wheat), and explored the second-hand bookstores of Boston’s Cornhill for $.25 masterpieces like Jean Toomer’s Cane, without necessarily passing up a sidetrip to the Old Howard burlesque show in adjacent Scollay Square, where he pulled his hat down over his face for fear of running into one of his students. I wasn’t around for the Old Howard, which closed in 1953, but by the time I was ten or eleven I started accompanying him on his foraging trips to Cornhill (now the site of Government Center), which always included a mid-morning hot fudge sundae at Bailey’s, where the fudge sauce was so thick it could have been a meal by itself.

It was his enthusiasm, I think, that inspired me most of all, his enthusiasm and his unfettered appreciation for life, literature, sports (he was a three-sport athlete at Tufts – Tris Speaker, the Grey Eagle, he said, had praised him for his play in a college game at Fenway Park), grammatical niceties, and democratic ideals. More than just appreciation, it was his undisguised avidity for experience and people of every sort. “Hey, Pete,” he would shout out in his high-pitched voice, to my pre-adolescent, adolescent, and post-adolescent (does that count as adult?) embarrassment, “Will you look at that?” And I’m not going to tell you what that was – because it’s still embarrassing. But, you know, it was always interesting.

But none of that would have counted for anywhere near as much if he were not such an unrestrained fan of me – it just seemed like whatever I did was all right with him. He came to all my baseball games, naturally, but when I took up tennis, which he had always scorned as an artificially encumbered (don’t ask me why), pointless kind of sport, he embraced it wholeheartedly, coming to all my tournaments and swiftly learning the finer points of the game. If I recommended a book, he was quick to embrace it. And when at the age of eleven and twelve and into early adolescence, I suffered from fears that so crippled me that I found it difficult even to go to school, his belief in me never wavered. Or more to the point perhaps, he never seemed to see me as any less, or any different, a person.

I grew up in my grandparents’ house off and on from the time I was born. My father, whom I could cite as an equally inspiring influence in terms of both character and commitment, landed in England the day I was born and didn’t return from the War until I was more than two years old, nearly a year after V-E Day. So my mother and I camped out with my grandparents, very comfortably for me, though I’m not so sure about my mother. (One of the short stories I’ve written lately tries to imagine what it must have been like for her, twenty-three, twenty-four-years old, with no certainty of the future, an only child living with her only child in her parents’ house.) Then, when my father finally came home, we remained for another three years, until we could finally afford a place of our own, moving into the garden apartments that had recently opened up near-by as affordable housing for returning veterans. A year or two after that, my grandparents gave my parents the house and moved to a roomy old apartment in Coolidge Corner, not far away.

Staying with my grandparents on weekends in their new apartment, even more book-crammed than the house because it was crammed with the same books, was always a treat. We went to theater together, my grandmother, my grandfather, and I – I can remember seeing Charles Laughton in Don Juan in Hell, the stand-alone third act of George Bernard Shaw’s Man and Superman when I was nine or ten years old. (Shaw was always a great favorite of my grandfather’s, along with such native-born contrarians as H.L. Mencken.) We went to serious plays, musicals, Broadway try-outs, and revivals. Along with Shaw, Eugene O’Neill undoubtedly loomed largest in my grandfather’s theatrical cosmos, and it was as exciting to listen to my grandparents talk about seeing Paul Robeson make his Broadway debut in The Emperor Jones or attending O’Neill’s marathon nine-act Strange Interlude, which included a break for dinner, as it was to hear my grandfather tell the story of how he lost his hat when he stood up to cheer Franklin Roosevelt at the Boston Garden.

But it was books in the end that were the instigators of the most passionate discussions, books that inspired me to want to write books of my own, books that would always provide an impetus for dinner-time conversation and home décor. My grandfather introduced me to Romain Rolland’s Jean Christophe, to James Joyce and Knut Hamsun, Joseph Conrad and Ford Madox Ford (he loved to discourse on what he called the shuttle-and-weave of their narrative technique), and Sigrid Undset. I’ll admit, I might well have been better off if I had stuck a little longer with the Landmark series of biographies that continued to excite me or the Scribner Classics editions of Jules Verne and Robert Louis Stevenson and James Fenimore Cooper, with those wonderful N.C. Wyeth illustrations, or any of the other children’s classics that I had indiscriminately devoured. But I was so bereft of self-awareness (while at the same time so consumed by self-consciousness) that I started to record my impressions of each of the books that I read in little tablet notebooks, earnest summaries not just of the books but of my own judgments of them. I could only express my “wonderment at, and admiration for, the author’s scope and ability,” I declared, writing about Sigrid Undset’s Kristin Lavransdatter when I was fifteen. And struggled for six handwritten pages to express more specifically my admiration for this 1000-page trilogy that takes place in fourteenth-century Norway, with its rare combination of epic sweep and unexpected intimacy. My grandfather considered it the greatest novel ever written, a judgment with which, as you can see, I struggled mightily to concur – and in fact still do. But I also knew, as my grandfather’s own omnivorous passion for discovery suggested, that all such judgments were nonsense. In the end, like the question of who was the greatest baseball player of all time, an early and abiding conversation of ours, it was a provisional title only, waiting for the next great thing to come along.

And yet, and yet, well, you know, when it comes right down to it, it wasn’t books or writing or epistemological fervor that were my primary inspiration. They would have meant nothing if it hadn’t been for everything else. What my grandfather communicated to me most of all was a hunger for life, for the raw stuff of life that served as the underpinning for every great book that either of us admired. I’m oversimplifying, I know, but it just seemed like, in the greater scheme of things, with my grandfather there was no exclusionary gene. There was no sense of high and low (no one appreciated a “dirty joke” more shamelessly than he) and, save for the inviolable principles of grammar and the strict standards of a “good education,” everything was in play, everything existed on the same human plane.

In many ways, I think that was what opened me up to the blues – not just the music but the experience of the music, the many different implications of the music – which turned out to be the single greatest revelation of my life. So many of the places where I started out are still the places where I am. Books, writing, playing sports (sadly, no more baseball), the blues. As my grandfather got older, his enthusiasm never diminished. When $100 Misunderstanding, an alternating dialogue between a fourteen-year-old black prostitute and her clueless white college john, came out in 1962, my grandfather got the idea that he and I could write a novel in the same manner about the generation gap, which was very much in the news then. We would write alternate chapters – well, you get the picture – and he was so excited about the idea that I couldn’t say no, though we never advanced to the point where we put anything down on paper. When the draft briefly threatened, he decided he would buy land in Canada and we could start a commune there, and while the threat went away before he was ever able to put his idea into practice, I had no doubt it would have been a very interesting (and well-ordered) commune.

A few years later, in 1970, he asked if I would help him run camp the following year. I’m not sure I need to explain, but this came like a bolt out of the blue. Alexandra and I had been working at camp for the last few years, and I was running the tennis program and coaching baseball. “No speculation,” I told my twelve-year-old charges, taking my cue, as always, from William Carlos Williams. It was a wonderful way to spend the summer, and it was certainly rewarding from any number of points of view, not least of which was being close to my grandparents. But not for one moment had the thought of running camp crossed my mind. I was twenty-six-years-old, working on my first full-length published book, Feel Like Going Home, and my fifth unpublished novel, Mister Downchild, and I thought I knew where my future lay.

At the same time, the idea of turning my grandfather down never crossed my mind. He was seventy-eight years old and had never asked for my help before – in fact, I couldn’t remember him ever asking anybody’s help. So, sure, yes, unequivocally. And yet I found it impossible to imagine how this could ever work. How exactly was I going to help? And if his idea was to defer to me, to withdraw and leave the day-to-day running of camp to me, well, this would require a lot more conviction, self-belief, and, above all, knowledge (since no one knew anything about the running of camp except for him) than I possessed. The question was, did I have it in me to be the person that I needed, that I wanted, for my grandfather’s sake, to be?

As it turned out, I never had to answer that question. My grandfather got sick – it appeared at first to be a stroke, it turned out to be a brain tumor – almost immediately after asking for my help. I kept things going over the winter in hopes that he would recover, and when he didn’t, it was like being thrown into the water and discovering, much to your surprise, that you actually knew how to swim. I ended up running camp by myself that summer, and I ran it for twenty-one years after that, and whatever my grandfather intended (and I suspect it was a great deal more than just providing me with an income to support my writing), it turned out to be one of the most rewarding, existentially engaging experiences of my life. And not just in the ways you might expect – camp was a thriving, self-sustaining community of 300 people that continued to grow and evolve, as did my own views of democratic institutions and possibilities – but because it inescapably exposed me to real life, it forced me out into a world in which my feelings were not the center of everything. A world of building things and balancing books, where you dealt of necessity (and to your own incalculable experiential benefit) with all kinds of different people, benefited from the wisdom and experience of others (could that have been what Omar Pound meant?), and learned not just to stand up for yourself but for everyone else, because no matter how much inner turmoil you might feel (and I think back to my ten- and –eleven-year-old self, curled up in a ball reading a book, afraid to leave the comforting familiarity of my room), you don’t have the luxury of dwelling on your own emotions. Because – why? Everyone is depending on you. It forced me, in other words, to grow up, in a way that deeply affected not only my writing but my ability to understand all the different personalities and perspectives that I wanted to portray in both my fiction and my nonfiction, in my biographies and profiles of such multifarious personalities as Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Waylon Jennings, Sam Phillips, and Solomon Burke. It forced me, when it came right down to it, to embrace the world.

My grandfather used to come see me in my dreams sometimes. He always wore his tan windbreaker and stood by the tree on the right field line at camp, where he used to watch my games, both as a kid and as an adult. It was always good to see him – there was never a time I didn’t wish he would stay longer. But even though I rarely see him nowadays, I carry with me always the conviction that he communicated so unhesitantly: that everything is just out there waiting to be discovered. And I try to keep that belief in the forefront – well, maybe the backfront – of my mind. I continue to be drawn on by the prospect, I continue to struggle for its discovery.

#writing #memoir

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stebooks-fr-blog · 4 years

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Pack Sciences humaines: 65 Livres anciens aux formats Word avec droit de revente

Pack Sciences Humaines: 65 Livres anciens aux formats docx de Word avec droit de revente Sciences humaines, Humour, Nouvelles, Arts, Histoire, Biographie, Autobiographie -Les manuscrits sont mis en forme aux formats Docx de Microsoft Word (table des matières active, titres, chapitres, paragraphes, sauts de page …) et prêt à être transformer en ePub et Mobi-kindel ebooks. -Les pages ne comportent aucun lien, aucune publicité et aucun copyright. Tous ces titres sont vendus en droits libres, personnalisable sans aucune condition & sans aucune limite, et que vous pouvez devenir ainsi vendeur à vie et sans réserve de vos PROPRES EBOOKS ! Le format Docx vous permet de mettre vous même les livres en page à votre guise et les éditer pour vos propres profits: *Pour votre travail, vos études, votre site ou blog.. *Pour faire des cadeaux à vos clients *Pour les vendre sur les plates formes d’autoédition Titres et Auteurs: A-se-tordre-Alphonse-Allais Adieu-Cayenne-Albert-Londres Ainsi-Parlait-Zarathoustra-Friedrich-Wilhelm-Nietzsche Bouvard-et-Pecuchet-Gustave-Flaubert Contes-Humoristiques-Tome-1-Alphonse-Allais Deux-et-deux-font-cinq-Alphonse-Allais Discours-de-la-methode-Rene-Descartes Du-contrat-social-ou-Principes-Jean-Jacques-Rousseau Edgar-Poe-sa-vie-et-ses-oeuvre-Charles-Baudelaire Fondements-de-la-metaphysique-Emmanue Kant Histoire-de-lart-Tome-I-L-Elie-Faure Histoire-de-lart-Tome-II-L-Elie-Faure Histoire-de-lArt-Tome-III-Elie-Faure La-decomposition-de-larmee-et-Anton-Ivanovitch-Denikine La-Fabrique-de-crimes-Paul-Feval-pere La-vie-veritable-du-citoyen-Jea-Victor-Barrucand La-Ville-Vampire-ou-bien-le-ma-Paul-Feval-pere LAffaire-Blaireau-Alphonse-Allais LAffaire-Lerouge-Emile-Gaboriau Lart-de-la-Guerre-Les-Treize-Sun-Tzu Lart-pour-tous-Stéphane Mallarmé Le-Brave-Soldat-Chveik-Jaroslav-Hasek Le-Monsieur-au-parapluie-Jules-Moinaux Le-Prince-Nicolas-Machiavel Les-caractères-Jean-de-La-Bruyere Les-Confessions-Jean-Jacques-Rousseau Les-Essais-Livre-I-Michel-de-Montaigne Les-Essais-Livre-II-Michel-de-Montaigne Les-Essais-Livre-III-Michel-de-Montaigne Les-huguenots-Cent-ans-de-per-Charles-Alfred-de-Janze Les-Nouvelles-aventures-de-Jeff-O.-Henry Les-reveries-du-promeneur-solit-Jean-Jacques-Rousseau Les tromperies des charlatans d -Thomas Sonnet de Courval LEsprit-Souterrain-Fyodor-Mikhailovich-Dostoyevsky Lettre-a-Louis-XIV-Francois-de-Salignac-de-La-Moth Lettres-a-la-Marquise-de-Coigny-Charles-Joseph-de-Ligne Lettres-choisies-Mme-de-Sevigne Lettres-de-Bayreuth-Charles-Henri-Tardieu L'Unique et sa propriete - Max Stirner Memoires-de-Vidocq-Tome-I-Eugene-Francois-Vidocq Memoires-de-Vidocq-Tome-II-Eugene-Francois-Vidocq Memoires-de-Vidocq-Tome-III-Eugene-Francois-Vidocq Memoires-de-Vidocq-Tome-IV-Eugene-Francois-Vidocq Memoires-dOutre-tombe-Francois-Rene-de-Chateaubriand Memoires du cardinal de Retz ec - Jean-Francois Paul de Gondi Memoires-dun-artiste-Charles-Gounod Mes-souvenirs-1848-1912-Jules-Massenet Naufrage-des-isles-flottantes-Etienne-Gabriel-Morelly New-York-Tic-Tac-O.-Henry Nouvelles-aventures-du-brave-so-Jaroslav-Hasek Pensees pour moi-meme - Marc Aurele Port-Tarascon-Dernieres-avent-Alphonse-Daudet Psychopathologie-de-la-vie-quot-Sigmund-Freud Reflexions-ou-sentences-et-maxi-Francois-de-La-Rochefoucauld Regles-pour-la-direction-de-le-Rene-Descartes Souvenirs-dun-homme-de-lettres-Alphonse-Daudet Souvenirs-dun-officier-de-la-G-Jean-Baptiste-Barres Systeme-dEpicure-Julien-Offray-de-La-Mettrie Tartarin-sur-les-Alpes-Nouvea-Alphonse-Daudet Trois-Hommes-en-Balade-Jerome-Klapka-Jerome Vie-de-Rance-Francois-Rene-de-Chateaubriand L'utopie- Thomas More LEtrange-Defaite-Marc-Bloch LArcheologie-egyptienne-Gaston-Maspero lart_russe-E. VIOLLET LE DUC Read the full article

#Arts #Autobiographie #Biographie #histoire #Humour #Nouvelles #Scienceshumaines

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writesandramblings · 6 years

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The Captain’s Secret - p.11

“The Cure for What Ails”

A/N: I now go out on a limb, because there's only so much you can do with the amount of character background given in the show so far, but I hope you'll agree the story point is worth the risk of any potential contradiction down the line.

This is also the first chapter to feature an adult variant to one of the scenes. It is entirely unnecessary to read the adult content to follow and enjoy the story, but it's there for anyone who wants it.

Full Chapter List << 10 - Minimally Invasive Procedures 12 - Affairs of the Heartless >>

Back on the shuttle, Carver had a hot thermos of coffee ready, strong and black and with a full and rich aroma that smelled like it must have come from her own private reserve, because the coffee in the ship's stores never smelled like this. Carver's family was Brazilian, and as he recalled from her file, coffee was to them what fortune cookies had once been to his ancestors.

"Lt. Carver, you truly are a treasure. How you ended up on the Triton instead of a ship that deserves you, I'll never know."

Carver flashed her pearly whites. "Just good luck, sir."

He settled down in the shuttle's rear, cup in hand. Lalana curled up on the seat next to him, tail over her eyes to sleep. He closed his eyes, too, but more as an excuse to savor the coffee's aroma, though he couldn't deny he was exhausted.

Someone sat down on his other side. He opened his eyes. Morita. She seemed like she wanted to say something. "Yes?" he prompted, sipping his coffee patiently. It was smooth-tasting, slightly nutty, not at all bitter. He would have preferred a little more acidic bite, actually. There was something to be said for really bad coffee at the tail end of a long day.

"Captain, it's not my intent to question you or your command."

Which meant she had a question. He inclined his head for her to continue and took another sip.

"When we went inside the house, what was the plan if we were caught?"

There was no simple answer to that question because there had been no one, single plan for that scenario.

There had been several.

If T'rond'n had found them in the bathroom, for instance, Lorca would have disabled or taken him hostage, then leveraged that to compel one or both of the Dartarans to contact the lului merchants on their behalf, giving them a much more direct path towards their end goal of locating Luluan.

In fact, that exact possibility was why Lorca had decided to go in while the Dartarans were awake in the first place: some primal part of him wanted to see what outcome fortune would dictate, the risky shortcut or the plan he'd set out to achieve.

Another, larger, equally primal part of him wanted to prove his greatest conceit.

Lorca had not been a tremendously profuse reader as a child. He was generously described as rambunctious, preferring any manner of physical pursuit to sitting down with a book in hand, and running around with your nose in a book was generally a surefire way to bust open said nose, which he knew from experience.

Despite this, he did enjoy books and reading, one book in particular. It was the book his mother had read him to sleep with as a child. A worn, old hardcover copy of Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, predating the Eugenics Wars.

It wasn't a particularly rare or well-kept copy. When he was seven or eight years old, he had torn the cover halfway off in a minor climbing incident and his mother had brought him along to a bookbinder to assess the damage. As bookbinding was a "dying art" largely relegated to modern hobbyists, finding a true professional had taken them to one of those vanishing corners of the Earth where currency was still used. The man had taken one look at the book, informed them it would cost many times more than the value of the book to repair it, and recommended replacing it instead. Lorca's mother had insisted on the repairs all the same.

He still remembered the way she stroked his hair as she read, the breathy whisper as she spoke into life the many wonders of the vast, unexplored frontier that was the ocean in 1866, and the words she'd said when he asked if one day he'd get to explore the oceans, too.

"Oh, hon," she had laughed. "There isn't anything left to explore in the oceans. They've already explored it all, before you were even born."

He'd been young enough that his response to this information was to break out in distraught wailing. She'd laughed again, but gently as she brushed the tears from his eyes.

"That's the ocean now, up there." She pointed out the window to the stars. "Look. It's so deep, it's inky black, and it's full of tiny, shining fish." From that moment on, the sky became the ocean, and he imagined the Nautilus traveling through that starry sea, and he looked up every night as she read to him and saw the words play out against the starlit sky, and dreamed of that waiting adventure.

The book was in his quarters at this very moment, sitting beside his bed, still bearing the marks of the repairs to its faded antique cover.

Inside that precious tome, tucked between pages fifty and fifty-one, lay a single slip of paper, barely the size of a pinky finger. It was a fortune he'd opened when he was only fifteen. By that time, he'd already started counting the days until he'd be able to realize his dream of sailing the starry ocean on a ship all his own, and he hadn't needed any encouragement, but the fortune had meant something to him all the same.

It read in tiny, precise black print, "You make your own fortune."

It was the sort of fortune cookie makers intended to be taken tongue in cheek, but that didn't change the potential those five words represented.

Which brought him back to the Dartarans and the risk he had taken in entering their home. He could have waited until they were asleep, gone the most cautious route, risked nothing and played it safe. Instead, he'd chosen a path that let fate enter the picture and affect the outcome.

And then he'd taken that same fate into his own hands and bent it to his own purposes through a combination of sheer intellect, training, and force of will.

Which was why he knew that, no matter how things had played out down on that moon, he would have found a way to complete his mission goals. There were plenty of ways he might have convinced Margeh and T'rond'n to help, too. Lalana might know things they would not want made public which could be used to blackmail them into compliance or silence. Elements of their business practices might be exposed to their financial detriment and potential ruin. As they were partners in business as well as life, one of them potentially had a trigger point at which he or she would fall into line to protect the other.

Supposing they were unmoved by blackmail or coercion. They had proven themselves to be rather stubborn when it came to their shuttle, after all. Well, then they could be brought back to the Triton and detained until the end of the mission. The ramifications with Starfleet would have been tremendously bad, but potentially weatherable. Successfully saving a whole planet of pre-warp aliens would certainly be a rousing factor in any defense.

He'd even had a contingency if one or both of the Dartarans had ended up dead. There was a perfectly good leskos corpse in the woods. Who's to say the Dartarans didn't meet an untimely end pursuing their favorite pastime in their forest of horrors?

It was a multi-layered tree of possibilities and outcomes, and Lorca had mapped enough of them to be able to say that no matter how things turned out, he would have been ready to march ahead with something plausibly workable.

The sum totality of it all was that he had more than he ever could or would say in explanation. The Wizard only ruled Oz so long as no one looked behind the curtain.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply from his cup. There was another set of fortune cookies stashed in here, and he wouldn't mind having one to go with his coffee, but for once he didn't feel like getting up. "Apologies, Reiko, but I'm gonna use my prerogative as captain not to answer. You're just gonna have to trust that there was a plan, but the less said about it, the better."

Morita seemed like she had expected as much. "Understood."

He smirked. "Try not to hold it against me."

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" She was professional to the point that, even when he addressed her by her given name, she didn't assume she had that freedom already. (Unlike Billingsley, who seemed to assume she was allowed to speak her mind whether anyone said she could or not. Maybe she felt she still had a blanket permission to speak freely from some previous granting of the right, as if such permissions never expired.)

"Go."

"I'm glad it didn't come to whatever it was. We're already off the books, I'd rather not break any more regulations."

Lorca squinted at her. "Have we broken any regulations?"

She looked surprised. "Trespassing and installing an unauthorized device on private property."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, chief."

She realized what he was doing and half-rolled her eyes in beleaguered amusement. The "if a tree falls in a forest and no one's there to hear it, it didn't make a sound" defense. Practical, albeit rather Machiavellian. "Sir," she said, with the mildest edge of disapproval. "What about the evidence?"

Lorca just shrugged casually and said in low, conspiratorial tone, "What evidence?"

Morita ran over their mission so far in her mind. The communications hijacker was evidence, all right, but it was something they'd confiscated from a pirate, contained no Starfleet components, and depending on how often and thoroughly the Dartarans checked their home data center, it might be months before they even noticed it was there and then they'd be unable to prove when it was installed. Fingerprints and DNA, maybe, but unless the Dartarans figured out what had happened, there would be no reason to check for those, and Russo had carefully wiped all the crucial surfaces down. There wasn't even any evidence that they had a live lului because the evidence indicated Lalana was dead.

It reminded her of something she'd heard at the Academy. "Professor Rokodo's midterm."

He hadn't heard or thought about that name in a long time. "Once again, I am at a loss."

Rokodo taught one of the basic prerequisite starship maintenance classes that no one really liked, not even the most passionate and enthusiastic ship geeks. If rumor was to be believed, a second-year cadet by the name of Gabriel Lorca and some compatriots, faced with the prospect of less than satisfactory scores, had derailed the midterm by executing a rather vicious prank involving a hazardous leak in the testing area. Investigation and expulsion might have been imminent save for the fact that when the hazard team arrived, no leak could be found, despite Rokodo's insistence that the leak had in fact occurred, and he was a certifiable expert in the field, so he would know.

Morita smiled. "Because you didn't do it or because you didn't get caught?"

"Yes," said Lorca, not identifying which. He exhaled heavily and his eyes fluttered closed, then snapped open, as if he might have started to fall asleep and stopped himself. "When you say 'off the books'... The books are the regulations." It sounded like the first part of a point, but no second part was forthcoming. Despite the hot caffeine infusion, he was starting to crash. "I do mostly follow the rules," he said after a moment.

"You do, sir."

"But the captain has to use his own discretion. The people who write the regs aren't out here. They're back, safe and comfy, in Starfleet command." There was another considerable pause. "And sometimes you have to take a risk. Especially when there's a payoff, and it's for a good cause. That's why we went in when we did."

Morita could see this conversation wasn't going to last much longer, but wanted to get what she could while she could from the captain. "What was the payoff?"

Lorca's smile was tired but self-satisfied. "The less time spent on that moon, the better."

There was no arguing with that. Morita leaned forward and looked across Lorca at Lalana. She didn't disagree about the good cause at this point, either. "Well put. Thank you, sir."

"Anytime, chief." Morita returned to the other side of the shuttle to check on Russo's scrapes again and Lorca closed his eyes.

He wasn't aware exactly when he fell asleep, or what happened the half-cup of coffee he didn't finish drinking, but he dreamed about tiny starry fish in an inky-black sky.

He awoke refreshed after a couple hours rest, just in time for their return to the Triton, and felt miles better, though by this point, no amount of rest on a shuttle was going to salvage the appearance of the away team. Dirty, rumpled clothes, scrapes, bruises, mussed hair, and haggard faces marked them as survivors of an arduous ordeal. Only Carver, who had spent the whole mission in the shuttle on standby, looked halfway decent, and even she was beginning to hit her coffee limit. Not that her piloting showed it.

As they approached, Lalana offered her folded up tail to Lorca, a gesture he didn't immediately understand until she tugged his hand out, palm up.

She dropped eight staples into his palm. "I am done with these now. Thank you again."

Lorca stared at the staples, mindful that all of them had been embedded to some degree in her body. He opened his mouth, inhaled with the intent of saying something, then stopped. The situation was what it was. "You're welcome," he lied, and dropped the staples onto the seat so someone in maintenance could worry about disposing of them. He surreptitiously eyed her haunch for any sign of the wound that had been there, but saw none, and there was no indication when she moved that she had ever been wounded.

Benford was waiting for their arrival, flanked by a security officer. He was a sight for sore eyes in the literal as well as figurative sense. "Welcome back, captain!" Benford said, beaming. His relief at having everyone safely back on board was palpable.

"Good to be back, Commander," replied Lorca as he disembarked from the shuttle, Lalana a step behind him.

"And Miss Lalana, lovely to see you, too."

"Commander Benford," replied Lalana graciously.

Of course, Benford was there with security for a reason. "Dr. Ek'Ez would like you to come to sickbay if you don't mind."

"Why?" she asked.

"Just the same old 'can't scan for parasites' routine."

"I really don't have parasites," said Lalana, looking to Lorca for guidance.

"You should let the doc check your wound," he said.

"That is not necessary, it is already fixed."

"Let the doc do his thing," said Lorca, "or I'll never hear the end of it."

Lalana let out a sort of breathy trill Lorca hadn't heard before, but which really felt like annoyance, and complied. She and Russo went with Benford.

Morita and Carver stood waiting for orders. "Excellent work, both of you. Get some rest. Dismissed."

"Aye, captain!" saluted Carver, with her trademark smile. She whirled on her foot and headed away with the others.

Billingsley didn't come out with the others, instead emerging a moment later pulling one of the gear crates from the shuttle. Lorca stared at her with vague disgust. "Billingsley! Leave that for someone else. You're dismissed."

She didn't listen, continuing to drag the crate down the ramp towards Lorca. He sighed at her stubbornness and took the crate's other end.

It was much easier carrying it between the two of them. Despite her clumsiness in regular gravity, Billingsley was no slouch and stronger than she looked, so they split the burden of the crate almost evenly. Almost. Both seemed to be trying to take the brunt of its weight. Competing right to the last, thought Lorca.

They deposited the crate near the shuttlebay doors. Billingsley pushed it against the wall with an angry shove of her foot. Lorca watched disapprovingly. "Watch it, chief," he warned.

She stood there, staring at the crate, her hands balled into fists. Then her hands relaxed. "I hate you," she said at last.

"I know." They stood there a moment more, Billingsley glowering while Lorca regarded her. He checked his watch, which still had Tederek local time displayed. It would be at least another hour or two before it was time to implement the next part of the plan. "Join me for a drink?"

(Mature version of the following scene available here. No content in the mature version of the scene is necessary to the story.)

Afterwards, she sat up, her hair hanging loosely about her shoulders and a twist of sheets around her waist and he noticed something.

She was marked with tiny brown dots like stars in a constellation, perfectly mirrored on both sides of her body at every major joint, as if she were Orion come to life from the sky.

With stubborn reluctance, she explained that they were measurement tattoos, placed on her at a young age so her parents could monitor the progress of the medical intervention taken to counteract the effects of high gravity on her developing skeletal structure. Most people had slight variances between the two halves of their body—one leg slightly longer than the other—but in Billingsley's case, her arms and legs were perfectly symmetrical by design, and she had ten years of precise medical notations to prove it.

"You could have them removed," he noted, running his thumb over the dot on her left shoulder. If you didn't know what the dots were or that they were paired on each side, they could be mistaken for large freckles or small moles.

His suggestion was met with silence. Billingsley was too practical a person for that kind of vain frivolity, and while her tattoos did not feature any image or text communicating their purpose, they were nevertheless as much a reflection of her history as any other tattoo.

Lorca traced his index finger from the dot on her shoulder to the dot on her elbow to the dot on her wrist, then folded his hand into hers. The long thinness of her hands was a side effect of the growth factors used to elongate her limbs. He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it. She snorted and pulled her hand away. "Don't get sentimental on me."

He grinned. "Never," he promised. "And don't you, either. That's an order."

She groaned and rolled her eyes. It wasn't a real order, obviously, but it did underscore the problem at the foundation of this encounter. On top of everything else.

Normally, his partners were slightly less annoyed with him after they were done, but this was Billingsley. Annoyed seemed to be her default setting. "We don't have a problem, do we?"

"No. Sir."

"Sar-ah!" he groaned in mild chastisement. Wait, she didn't think... He sat up suddenly. "This doesn't change anything."

He'd mistaken her response for more antagonistic than she'd intended. "So I don't get a repeat?"

He carefully considered her face and body language. "Do you want a repeat?"

Her shoulders shrugged and her eyes feigned disinterest. "I'm not saying no." She sniffed in sudden amusement. "At least you gave me more than a choice than I had taking this assignment."

It seemed like there was a story there. "How's that?"

She sighed. "I'm supposed to be on Spacedock. If that engineer hadn't gotten kicked out of Starfleet during the ship's last refit..."

He knew that the engineer who had occupied Sarah's position prior had been discharged from Starfleet for behavioral problems, but he'd always assumed Billingsley had taken the job because she wanted it. He said as much.

"They needed someone who was up to speed on the Triton's systems. I was in charge of the refit. So..."

He suddenly realized exactly how much she didn't want to be there. "You can transfer out."

She shrugged. "No starbases have any good engineering posts open. They always go to someone else. Triton isn't exactly a resume-builder."

That annoyed him. No one had ever asked to be assigned to the Triton, but it was still his ship, and he felt he'd done an exemplary job of restoring the ship's reputation to something approaching esteem since taking command. And while it had previously been known as a terrible posting, it was a temporary one. The ship only had four more months until it was decommissioned. This entire assignment was a proving ground. Didn't Billingsley see that?

He might have said any or all of this to her. He settled for a brief, "Four months."

She hummed slightly. "Four months," she repeated.

And in that time, he intended to show Starfleet just what their newly minted captain was made of.

Part 12

#Star Trek Discovery #fanfiction #Captain Lorca #Gabriel Lorca #Star Trek #fanfic

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laurent-bigot · 7 years

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Avec ses héros romantiques, ses femmes abandonnées, ses petits commerçants, le cinéma français des années 30 a favorisé la popularité d’un grand nombre d’acteurs qui ont prêté, avec talent, leur visage à une série de personnages inoubliables.

Françoise Rosay, grâce à son indéniable présence à l’écran, a marqué certains des films français les plus importants de cette époque. Née en 1891, elle fit ses débuts au cinéma en 1913 et joua ensuite dans 94 films. En 1925, elle travailla avec Feyder dans Gribiche, l’histoire exemplaire d’une femme de la grande bourgeoisie américaine qui adopte l’enfant d’une ouvrière. Comédienne de talent, douée d’une forte personnalité, elle s’imposa en 1931 dans un film de Bernard Deschamps, Le Rosier de madame Husson, et elle obtint un succès total et mérité dans le film de Jacques Feyder La Kermesse héroïque (1935), où elle jouait le rôle d’une Flamande qui organise la résistance des femmes de sa ville contre l’envahisseur espagnol. Elle parvint aussi, grâce à son autorité naturelle, à s’imposer dans le face à face de Louis Jouvet et Michel Simon, les deux « cousins » terribles de Drôle de drame (1937) de Marcel Carné. Dans un film de Claude Autant-Lara fortement teinté d’humour noir, L’Auberge rouge (1951), elle sut camper parfaitement la tenancière du sinistre hôtel de province où son non moins sinistre mari assassinait les clients afin de s’emparer de leur argent. Françoise Rosay ne joua pas seulement en France : elle travailla aussi en Angleterre et en Allemagne. Dans L’Auberge fantôme (The Halfway House, 1944) de Basil Dearden, comme dans Les Gens du voyage (Farhendes Volk, 1938) de Jacques Feyder, elle donna la preuve des nombreuses facettes de son talent. Elle mourut le 28 mars 1974.

Michèle Morgan, née à Neuilly en 1920, fréquenta l’école d’art dramatique à Paris, où elle fut découverte par Marc Allégret qui avait besoin d’une toute jeune actrice pour son film Gribouille (1937). Sous sa direction, elle joua aussi Orages en 1937, un film qui lui permit d’affirmer son talent malgré la préférence donnée à son partenaire, Charles Boyer. Mais ce fut Marcel Carné qui mit en valeur son jeu dans Le Quai des brumes. Sa photogénie, l’intensité de son regard, son visage énigmatique contribuèrent à rendre fascinant le personnage de la jeune et timide Nelly, au point que sa silhouette enveloppée de l’imperméable transparent et son béret emboîtant ses cheveux lisses sont devenus un stéréotype du cinéma français des années 30. Après deux films assez insignifiants, elle consolida son succès avec Remorques (1939) de Jean Grémillon. Pendant la guerre elle joua en Amérique une série de films mineurs, puis revint en France en 1946 pour interpréter La Symphonie pastorale de Jean Delannoy, d’après le roman d’André Gide. Son talent lui valut une récompense lors du premier festival de Cannes ; le film remporta un tel succès en France et à l’étranger que l’on compara l’actrice française à Greta Garbo, notamment grâce à son regard. Par la suite sa popularité fut confirmée par de nombreux films dont les plus marquants restent Les Grandes Manœuvres (1955) de René Clair et Le Miroir à deux faces (1958) d’André Cayatte. Michèle Morgan mourut le 20 décembre 2016.

Michel Simon naquit à Genève en 1895 ; à seize ans, il monta à Paris où il vivota en vendant des briquets de contrebande au coin des rues et en donnant des leçons de boxe. Il débuta au théâtre comme acrobate, puis comme clown, et commença à faire du cinéma à l’âge de trente ans. Son premier rôle important remonte à 1925 dans Feu Mathias Pascal de Marcel L’Herbier, mais ce fut avec le parlant qu’il s’imposa comme un des plus grands interprètes du cinéma français. Sa voix très particulière et son physique « impossible », comme on le qualifiait à l’époque, lui acquirent facilement la sympathie du public. Personne n’a oublié ses interprétations dans La Chienne et Boudu sauvé des eaux, deux films de Renoir dont il fut un des acteurs de prédilection. En 1934, il joua un des rôles qui comptent dans la vie d’un acteur, celui du Père Jules, le marin bougon de L’Atalante, le poétique film de Jean Vigo. Sa diction singulière, son visage peu banal faisaient de lui un acteur tout à fait à part. Grâce à d’autres films de cette époque, réalisés par les cinéastes français les plus connus, il put révéler les différentes facettes de son talent : Drôle de drame, Le Quai des brumes, sans oublier Les Disparus de Saint-Agil (1938) de Christian-Jaque, Le Dernier Tournant (1939) de Pierre Chenal, La Comédie du bonheur (1940) de Marcel L’Herbier et Panique de Julien Duvivier (1947). Michel Simon est mort en 1975.

Michel Simon et Jean-Louis Barrault dans “Drôle de drame” de Marcel Carné (1937) – Photographie : Eugen Schüfftan, Louis Page, Henri Alekan

Raimu (Jules Muraire, César Raimu) naquit à Toulon, en Provence, où il débuta dans des revues et dans de petits music-halls. Il remporta son premier grand succès à Paris en 1929, dans « Marius» de Marcel Pagnol, un triomphe qui se répéta deux ans plus tard avec l’adaptation cinématographique de la pièce. Pendant les années 30, on le vit dans un certain nombre de films qu’il marqua de son talent indiscutable, plus raffiné qu’on le pense parfois, de Faisons un rêve de Sacha Guitry (1934) à L’Etrange M. Victor deJean Grémillon (1937). Mais c’est en Pagnol qu’il trouva l’auteur idéal pour le mettre en valeur. De forte corpulence, l’air renfrogné, capable d’être agressif et vulnérable avec la même force de conviction, Raimu excella à rendre l’esprit du midi de la France. Bien plus que sa très belle interprétation dans Un carnet de bal de Julien Duvivier, son meilleur rôle restera celui du boulanger dans La Femme du boulanger (1938). Deux ans plus tard, il connut aussi un grand succès avec La Fille du puisatier. La dernière période de sa carrière, jusqu’à sa mort en 1946, présente de peu d’intérêt, car les rôles qui lui étaient confiés étaient très inférieurs à ses capacités, à l’exception de deux films : Les Inconnus dans la maison (1941) d’Henri Decoin, sur un scénario de Clouzot, et L’Homme au chapeau rond (1946) de Pierre Billon, où il donnait la réplique à Fernand Ledoux et redoublait de cynisme vis-à-vis de sa petite fille. Raimu faisait partie de ces acteurs qui se mettent tout entier dans la peau de leurs personnages, et sont capables d’être crédibles même dans des films médiocres.

Louis Jouvet, célèbre metteur en scène, acteur et directeur de théâtre fit ses premiers pas sur un plateau de cinéma en 1913, à vingt-six ans dans le rôle antipathique de Shylock (personnage du « Marchand de Venise », de Shakespeare), mais ses vrais débuts à l’écran dans un rôle d’une certaine importance eurent lieu dix -neuf ans plus tard quand il interpréta la version cinématographique du Topaze de Pagnol, dirigé par Louis Gasnier. Le film eut un succès modéré et Jouvet dut attendre l’année suivante et son triomphe personnel dans Knock (1933) pour connaître la popularité. Par la suite, son visage émacié mais non sans noblesse, sa diction saccadée et sarcastique furent admirablement utilisés dans les films les plus importants des années 30. Son excellente interprétation dans La Kermesse héroïque, où il tenait le rôle d’un moine sensuel et peu respectueux des règles de la vie religieuse, occupa dans sa carrière une place à part. L’année suivante Jean Renoir le choisit pour Les Bas-Fonds, où il incarnait un aristocrate ruiné par le jeu. Des 19 films interprétés entre 1938 et 1940 – et qui lui permirent (il ne s’en cachait pas) de financer ses productions théâtrales -, les plus remarquables furent Drôle de drame de Carné, Un carnet de bal de Duvivier – il y fut inoubliable dans le rôle d’un propriétaire de night-club particulièrement sournois-, Hôtel du Nord de Carné et La Fin du jour (1939), toujours de Duvivier, où il donnait la réplique à Michel Simon et à Victor Francen. Il connut ses derniers grands succès avec Un Revenant (1946) de Christian-Jaque et Quai des Orfèvres (1947) de Clouzot. En 1951, peu de temps avant sa mort, il fut à nouveau l’interprète de Knock, un remake du film qui l’avait rendu célèbre à l’écran et qui était cette fois-ci réalisé par Guy Lefranc. Le romancier Jules Romains en écrivit les dialogues.

“Un Carnet de bal” de Julien Duvivier (1937) avec Marie Bell, Françoise Rosay, Louis Jouvet, Fernandel, Harry Baur, Raimu, Pierre Blanchar,

Arletty est sans aucun doute l’actrice qui a su le mieux exprimer l’atmosphère grinçante et sombre des films du tandem Carné/Prévert. Sa voix « pointue », son regard provocant, son élégance et son raffinement convenaient parfaitement à la psychologie de l’amante entraînée par un destin inexorable, personnage quasi mythique des films de Marcel Carné. Léonie Bathiat est née à Courbevoie-sur-Seine en 1898. Avant de faire du théâtre elle a été dactylographe (jusqu’en 1920). Elle travailla d’abord dans des music-halls puis fit ses vrais débuts à l’écran dans Un Chien qui rapporte (1931) de Jean Choux. Mais ce fut son succès personnel dans Hôtel du Nord qui marqua le début de sa collaboration artistique avec Marcel Carné Son personnage se fit plus dense avec Le Jour se lève (1939), où elle interprétait le rôle complexe de Clara, et avec Les Visiteurs du soir (1942), où elle apparaissait en troubadour. Elle pouvait tenir des rôles très différents tout en restant parfaitement convaincante, comme le prouvent des films tels que Désiré (1936) de Sacha Guitry, Fric-Frac (1939) ou Huis clos (1954). C’est cependant son interprétation de Garance dans Les Enfants du paradis qui fit d’elle un grand personnage de l’écran. La carrière d’Arletty fut tragiquement interrompue par la cécité (après un premier arrêt en 1945 pour cause d’ « épuration »). Ajoutons qu’elle a merveilleusement raconté les péripéties de son existence dans un livre magnifique, « La Défense », dont le style est assez célinien. Arletty mourut le 24 juillet 1992.

Jules Berry est né à Paris en 1889. Il débuta au cinéma après une longue expérience sur les scènes de théâtre bruxelloises. Avec sa silhouette élégante, toujours tiré à quatre épingles, sa voix charmeuse et suave, il fut l’un des acteurs les plus demandés des années 30. Au cours de l’année 1936, on le vit dans 11 films, puis dans 14 en 1938, alors qu’il poursuivait parallèlement sa carrière théâtrale. Si son refus d’apprendre les répliques par cœur surprenait, son talent d’improvisateur était encore plus étonnant, et seuls les acteurs qui jouaient avec lui pouvaient se rendre compte des changements qu’il apportait au manuscrit. Il joua dans 90 films et ses meilleures interprétations se situent justement dans les années 30, âge d’or du cinéma français. Il fut industriel malhonnête dans Le Crime de monsieur Lange de Renoir, gentleman dans Voleur de femmes (1936) d’Abel Gance, dresseur de chiens dans Le Jour se lève de Carné puis diable facétieux dans Les Visiteurs du soir, une interprétation qui lui apporta la célébrité et la consécration. Pendant les cinq dernières années de sa vie (il est mort en 1951), il joua encore dans 5 films.

Fernandel (Fernand-Joseph-Désiré Contandin) naquit à Marseille en 1903 et se dirigea vers le cinéma après une longue expérience sur les scènes des vaudevilles et des revues. Il remporta son premier succès cinématographique en 1932 dans Le Rosier de madame Husson. Il jouait le rôle de l’unique célibataire d’un village où une dame (Françoise Rosay) de la bonne société organisait une fête pour lutter contre l’immoralité. Après avoir gagné le premier prix il le gaspillait en menant une vie dissolue ; certains ont vu dans cet excellent film une dénonciation ironique et spirituelle de l’hypocrisie d’une certaine bourgeoisie française. Son air gauche et innocent lui servit dans Fric-Frac de Claude Autant-Lara, où il incarnait l’employé d’une bijouterie affrontant un couple de petits escrocs parisiens (Michel Simon et Arletty). C’est avec Marcel Pagnol que Fernandel a pris place parmi les meilleurs acteurs du cinéma français en campant avec un immense talent les personnages masculins d’Angèle (1934), de Regain (1937), du Schpountz (1937), de La Fille du puisatier (1940) de Nais (1945) et de Topaze (1950). Après Tu m’as sauvé la vie (1950) de Sacha Guitry, ses apparitions se firent plus rares, malgré le succès retentissant de L’Auberge rouge de Claude Autant-Lara. Son personnage le plus populaire reste sans doute celui du prêtre Don Camillo dans la fameuse série à succès. Il mourut en 1971.

Mireille Balin est née le 20 juillet 1911 à Monte-Carlo. Elle fait des études secondaires à Marseille, où sa famille s’est fixée, puis «monte» à Paris où elle devient modèle pour des photographies de mode et ensuite mannequin de Haute Couture. C’est le réalisateur Maurice Cammage qui la «découvre» et lui fait tourner un petit rôle dans Vive la classe, (1932). Pabst, qui cherchait une Dulcinée pour son Don Quichotte, lui fait jouer ce rôle aux côtés du célèbre chanteur d’opéra Fedor Chaliapine (1933). La jeune comédienne est lancée : elle a à peine plus de vingt ans et sa silhouette impeccable, son visage juvénile est mis au service de personnages de ravissantes ingénues dans quelques films oubliés. C’est Julien Duvivier qui va pressentir en elle un talent encore inexploité. Il lui propose d’abord le rôle d’Aïcha dans La Bandera (1935) ; mais Mireille tombe malade et Annabella la remplace. L’année suivante, Duvivier lui confie le soin d’incarner Gaby, la créature de rêve dont l’amour sera fatal à Pépé le Moko, la femme du monde pour laquelle Pépé le Moko (Jean Gabin) se suicide. Après Pépé le Moko, c’est une autre grande réussite : Gueule d’amour, de Jean Grémillon (1937), où elle est encore la partenaire de Gabin. Dans ce film, elle est “l’instrument de l’inéluctable car de ce traits sans défauts sourd la mort, de ce visage acéré, de ces sourcils arqués, de ces paupières profondes, de cette bouche parfaite mais ironique, à la lisière du mépris, de ces mains fines aux phalanges démesurées.” Devenue une grande vedette, Mireille Balin est alors appelée à Hollywood…pour rien ! De retour en France, où elle se trouve cantonnée dans des rôles de femme fatale Macao, l’enfer du jeu, Menaces, Dernier atout. Mais, en même temps que ces films de qualité, elle ne cesse de tourner dans des productions moins flamboyantes, du genre Le Roman d’un saphi (1936), ou Naples au baiser de feu (1937), qui la rendent très populaire mais étouffent – en la limitant aux rôles de «femme fatale» – son talent de comédienne. Inoubliable star de l’entre-deux guerres et après avoir été la vedette d’une trentaine de films, Mireille Balin, subit, en 1945, les foudres des comités d’épuration pour avoir trop aimé un bel officier de la Wehrmacht. Malade, ruinée, prématurément vieillie, l’actrice fera une ultime apparition dans La Dernière chevauchée, de Léon Mathot en 1946 et, jusqu’à sa mort (1968), elle mènera une vie solitaire, partagée entre l’errance et la réclusion, il ne lui restera plus rien de la grande fortune qui avait été la sienne au temps de sa splendeur.

Visages familiers du cinéma français Avec ses héros romantiques, ses femmes abandonnées, ses petits commerçants, le cinéma français des années 30 a favorisé la popularité d'un grand nombre d'acteurs qui ont prêté, avec talent, leur visage à une série de personnages inoubliables.

#arletty #fernandel #jules berry #louis jouvet #michel simon #mireille balin #raimu

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