Imogen Poots - So It Goes Magazine - Issue 3
nana and her bikinis lol
"She done messed with the wrong witch, and she knows it, and now you know it."
Happy 29th birthday, Max Irons! (17th of October 1985)
I will say goodbye, the longest farewell, my Puppelé. That’s what I called you. It meant “little doll” in German. I do not watch the flowers, but your face, and I think you’re beautiful, and never, perhaps, have you been so beautiful. I also think this is the first time in my life - and yours - I’ve seen you calm and soothed. You’re so quiet, you are so fine, how beautiful you are.
It was in Paris twenty-five years ago when I was chosen to be your partner in Christine. You came from Vienna and I waited, in Paris, with a bouquet of flowers in my arms that I did not know how to hold. But the film’s producers told me: “When she comes down from the bridge, you will advance to her and offer these flowers.” I waited with my flowers, like a fool, waiting with a horde of photographers. You came down. I stepped forward. You said to your mother, “Who is this boy?” She answered for you: “It must be Alain Delon, your partner.“ And then: Nothing, no thunderbolt, no. And then I went to Vienna where we were shooting the film, and then I fell madly in love with you. And you fell in love with me. Often, we asked ourselves, one to another, on the issue of love, “Who fell in love first, you or me?” We counted “One, two, three!” And we answered: “It was neither you nor I! It was together.” My God, we were young, and we were happy.
At the end of the film, I said, “Come live with me in France,” but already you had told me: “I want to live with you in France.” Do you remember? Your family, your parents, furious. And throughout Austria, Germany, they all treated me as the usurper, the kidnapper, and accused me of removing the Empress! Me, a Frenchman, who did not speak a word of German. And you, Puppelé, who did not speak a word of French. We loved without words, in the beginning. We looked and we had some laughs. Puppelé …
I watch you sleep. I’m alone again. I say you loved me. I loved you. I made you French, a French star. Of that, yes, I feel responsible. And this country that you loved, for my sake, became yours. France. You’ll stay here and you will rest forever in the land of France. There, you will sleep forever. Closer to home, close to me. I will not go to church or the cemetery. I ask you to forgive me. You know I would not be able to protect you from this crowd, this storm, so eager to “show” and that made you so afraid that you trembled. Forgive me. I’ll see you tomorrow, when we are alone.
My Puppelé, I look at you again and again. I want to devour you with all of my eyes, and tell you again and again that you’ve never been so beautiful and calm. Rest. I’m here. I learned a little German, with you. Ich liebe dich. I love you. I love you, my Puppelé. - Alain Delon’s farewell to Romy Schneider
Eve + colour porn.
Lauren Bacall, C.1940’s
James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause