Where the Bee
Elliot Goldenthal, Ben Whishaw · Music From The Motion Picture: The Tempest

wmewwwhishawb:

professorfangirl:

If a violin and a French horn had a little baby, it’d be Ben Whishaw’s voice. Here’s two minutes of velvet to soften your morning.

Ben Whishaw #the Tempest

a-forger-and-a-point-man:

this audio conversation between tavi and ben was really nice to listen to

John Proctor and Abigail Williams
Ben Whishaw and Saoirse Ronan · The Crucible on Broadway

simonwolfgard:

Ben Whishaw and Saoirse Ronan’s first scene together in The Crucible on Broadway

Richard II (Act 4, scene 1, lines 153-210)
Ben Whishaw (mostly) · Hollow Crown

deciulla:

priestofesparza:

KING RICHARD II

To do what service am I sent for hither?

DUKE OF YORK

To do that office of thine own good will
Which tired majesty did make thee offer,
The resignation of thy state and crown
To Henry Bolingbroke.

KING RICHARD II

Give me the crown. Here, cousin, seize the crown;
Here cousin:
On this side my hand, and on that side yours.
Now is this golden crown like a deep well
That owes two buckets, filling one another,
The emptier ever dancing in the air,
The other down, unseen and full of water:
That bucket down and full of tears am I,
Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

HENRY BOLINGBROKE

I thought you had been willing to resign.

KING RICHARD II

My crown I am; but still my griefs are mine:
You may my glories and my state depose,
But not my griefs; still am I king of those.

HENRY BOLINGBROKE

Part of your cares you give me with your crown.

KING RICHARD II

Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down.
My care is loss of care, by old care done;
Your care is gain of care, by new care won:
The cares I give I have, though given away;
They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay.

HENRY BOLINGBROKE

Are you contented to resign the crown?

KING RICHARD II

Ay, no; no, ay; for I must nothing be;
Therefore no no, for I resign to thee.
Now mark me, how I will undo myself;
I give this heavy weight from off my head
And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand,
The pride of kingly sway from out my heart;
With mine own tears I wash away my balm,
With mine own hands I give away my crown,
With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,
With mine own breath release all duty’s rites:
All pomp and majesty I do forswear;
My manors, rents, revenues I forego;
My acts, decrees, and statutes I deny:
God pardon all oaths that are broke to me!
God keep all vows unbroke that swear to thee!
Make me, that nothing have, with nothing grieved,
And thou with all pleased, that hast all achieved!
Long mayst thou live in Richard’s seat to sit,
And soon lie Richard in an earthly pit!
God save King Harry, unking’d Richard says,
And send him many years of sunshine days!

A Ben Masterpiece

lovebenwhishaw:

Found it!!!! Graham Norton interviewing Ben!As usual,he’s very cute !

Hope you like it! = )

boredpsychopath-jc:

poetictouch:

Ben Whishaw reads
Love Sonnet 78
by Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

I don’t hold on to never. I don’t hold on to forever. In the sand
victory leaves vanishing footprints.
I’m just a poor man disposed to cherishing our similarities.
Whoever you are. I love you. I neither give nor sell suspicion.
Someone knows that I haven’t woven crowns
of thorns; that I’ve fought the stupidness,
And the tide of my spirit filled up with truth.
I repaid the vicious with doves.

I don’t hold on to never because I’m distinct,
Every moment, I have been, I am, I always will be.
In the name of my love’s changeability I proclaim its purity.

Death is only a stone of oblivion.
I love you. Into your mouth I kiss happiness.
Let’s gather some sticks. Let’s light a fire on the mountain.

THIS. BLESS YOU WHO UPLOADED THIS BEAUTIFUL READING. 

Ben’s reading was the reason why I set quotes from this translation as titles of my London Spy fix-it fic series. I’ve posted Death is only a stone of oblivion on AO3 here.

poetictouch:

Ben Whishaw reads
Ode To The Sea
by Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

Here
Surrounding the island
There’s sea.
But what sea?
It’s always overflowing.
Says yes,
Then no,
Then no again,
And no,
Says yes
In blue
In sea spray
Raging,
Says no
And no again.
It can’t be still.
It stammers
My name is sea.

It slaps the rocks
And when they aren’t convinced,
Strokes them
And soaks them
And smothers them with kisses.
With seven green tongues
Of seven green dogs
Or seven green tigers
Or seven green seas,
Beating its chest,
Stammering its name,

Oh Sea,
This is your name.
Oh comrade ocean,
Don’t waste time
Or water
Getting so upset
Help us instead.
We are meager fishermen,
Men from the shore
Who are hungry and cold
And you’re our foe.
Don’t beat so hard,
Don’t shout so loud,
Open your green coffers,
Place gifts of silver in our hands.
Give us this day
Our daily fish.

<3<3

Alex's monologue about loneliness
Edward Holcroft · London spy

angulema-warrior:

I’ve posted Danny’s monologue from s01ep02 here. Now it’s time for Alex’s monologue about loneliness (”I was that man”).

Still haven’t any permission. The text is under the cut.

Keep reading

Disabled
Ben Whishaw · Wilfred Owen, War Poems

professorfangirl:

professorfangirl:

Wilfred Owen, “Disabled,” read by Ben Whishaw.

*

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,-
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls’ waists are, or how warm their subtle hands.
All of them touch him like some queer disease.

There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He’s lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he’d drunk a peg,
He thought he’d better join. - He wonders why.
Someone had said he’d look a god in kilts,
That’s why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He asked to join. He didn’t have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.

Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And Austria’s, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He drought of jewelled hills
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then enquired about his soul.

Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women’s eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.

How cold and late it is! Why don’t they come
And put him into bed? Why don’t they come?

***

Unfortunately, many wounded veterans are even worse off nowadays. Please consider donating to The Wounded Warrior Project.

Reblogging for Armistice Day. Please donate.

I may or may not have recorded the entirety of Q’s first scene in SPECTRE with Bond in the lab and the very last scene of the film (audio only) if anyone would like to hear it/keep it? Just let me know if interested….but shhh, don’t tell. Haha.