For full thing click thru to the AO3 link or you can see the super high qual version on Flickr. Who knows the fate of this on Tumblr. PUT ALL THAT SKIN AWAY BUCKO.  

Birthday gift for @velociraptorerin​. Cause everyone needs a good hug every once in a while. <3

Beautiful film stills from Good Bye, Lenin! (2003) with Daniel Brühl as Alexander Kerner.

“She is a beautiful piece of broken pottery, put back together by her own hands. And a critical world judges her cracks while missing the beauty of how she made herself whole again.”

— J.M. Storm

“In the beginning the Universe was created. This made a lot of people very angry and has been widely regarded as a bad move.”

— Douglas Adams

“IT’S A SWORD, IT’S NOT MEANT TO BE SAFE.” My favourite scene from The Hogfather. ___ See how this comic was made here.

MY GUILT IS AN OCEAN FOR ME TO DROWN IN.

Slaughterhouse, Yves Olade / Fallout 4 / Apocalypse Logic, Elissa Washuta / Little Red Riding Hood Addresses the Next Wolf, Brenna Twohy / The Song of Achilles,  Madeline Miller / Altered Carbon (2018) / Mercy, Yves Olade / Unknown / Crime and Punishment,  Fyodor Dostoevsky / Everything Everything, Nicola Yoon

Kreizler's theories

Rarely have I felt so strongly the truth of Kreizler’s belief that the answers one gives to life’s crucial questions are never truly spontaneous; they are the embodiment of years of contextual experience, of the building of patterns in each of our lives that eventually grow to dominate our behavior. Was Theodore—whose credo of active response to all challenges had guided him through physical sickness in youth and political and personal trials in adulthood —truly free to refuse Kreizler’s offer? And if he accepted it, was I then free to say no to these two friends, with whom I had lived through many escapades and who were now telling me that my extracurricular activities and knowledge—so often dismissed as useless by almost everyone I knew—would prove vital in catching a brutal killer? Professor James would have said that, yes, any human being is free, at any time, to pursue or decline anything; and perhaps, objectively, that is true. But as Kreizler loved to say (and Professor James ultimately had a hard time refuting), you cannot objectify the subjective, you cannot generalize the specific. What man, or a man, might have chosen was arguable; Theodore and I were the men who were there.

The Alienist, 1997

Caleb Carr

Daniel Brühl by Tomo Brejc for Esquire UK

Dead Poets Society (1989) dir. Peter Weir

Introduction of Laszlo Kreizler

As soon as I was inside the vestibule I heard the usual shouts and howls—some coherent protests, some simply wails of madness and despair—coming from the cells beyond. At the same instant I spotted Kreizler; odd, how strongly the sight of him has always been associated, in my mind, with such sounds. As usual, his suit and coat were black, and as often he was reading the music notices in the Times. His black eyes, so much like a large bird’s, flitted about the paper as he shifted from one foot to the other in sudden, quick movements. He held the Times in his right hand, and his left arm, underdeveloped as the result of a childhood injury, was pulled in close to his body. The left hand occasionally rose to swipe at his neatly trimmed mustache and the small patch of beard under his lower lip. His dark hair, cut far too long to meet the fashion of the day, and swept back on his head, was moist, for he always went hatless; and this, along with the bobbing of his face at the pages before him, only increased the impression of some hungry, restless hawk determined to wring satisfaction from the worrisome world around him.

The Alienist, 1997

Caleb Carr

For a moment I thought that perhaps something had happened to Laszlo. Certainly that would have accounted for the fretful way in which Stevie whipped and drove Frederick, an animal I knew him at most times to treat with complete kindness. Kreizler was the first human being who’d ever been able to get more than a bite or a punch out of Stevie, and he was certainly the only reason the young fellow wasn’t still in that Randalls Island establishment so euphemistically known as the “Boys’ House of Refuge.” Besides being, as the Police Department had put it, “a thief, pickpocket, drunkard, nicotine fiend, feeler”—the member of a banco team that lures dupes to the site of the game—“and congenitally destructive menace,” all by the time he was ten, Stevie had attacked and badly maimed one of the guards on Randalls Island, who he claimed had tried to assault him. (“Assault,” in the newspaper language of a quarter-century ago, almost invariably meaning rape.) Because the guard had a wife and family, the boy’s honesty, and finally his sanity, had been questioned—which was when Kreizler, as one of the foremost experts of the day in forensic psychiatry, had made his entrance. At Stevie’s sanity hearing Kreizler painted a masterful picture of the boy’s life on the streets since the age of three, when he had been abandoned by his mother, who put an opium habit above caring for her son and finally became the mistress of a Chinese purveyor of the drug. The judge had been impressed by Kreizler’s speech, and skeptical of the injured guard’s testimony; but he would only agree to release Stevie when Kreizler offered to take the boy in and vouched for his future conduct. I thought Laszlo quite crazy, at the time; but there was no doubting that in just over a year Stevie had become a very different youth. And, like almost everyone who worked for Laszlo, the boy was devoted to his patron, despite that peculiar quality of emotional distance that made Kreizler so perplexing to many who knew him.



The Alienist, 1997

Caleb Carr