I was reading a book about composers, and at the end of each chapter I wrote a one sentence summary of each composer. these are the sentences.

ludwig van beethoven: angry dude who had no care for social norms

franz schubert: short poet with very supportive friends

hector berlioz: early romantic who could barely play an instrument, created the modern orchestra, was overly-jealous and borderline-insane, and dissected stuff

robert schumann: emo piano critic

frederic chopin: the paganini of piano who got turned on by female voices apparently

franz liszt: ego ego ego ego and warts

felix mendelssohn: jewish german dude–fun combo

richard wagner: God according to himself and hitler

johannes brahms: testy guy who wrote “beethoven’s 10th” (CLARAAA!!!!)

hugo wolf: sort of a failure who went insane. sadness

richard strauss: he liked money and was obedient to his wife 

peter tchaikovsky: sad homosexual russian man

composers and their descriptions

Bach: polyphony is the new black

Haydn: surprise motherfucker

Mozart: some people just never grow up :/

Beethoven: some people just never grOW OUT OF THEIR EMO PHASE

Tchaikovsky: sad, gay, and ready to slay

Brahms: the song Girlfriend by Avril Lavigne was written specifically for him

Liszt: ill play you a piece if you strip on the piano

Rachmaninoff: this footlong handspan is compensating for something else

Wagner: wow i cant believe he stole lord of the rings

Strauss: you stop dancing, you die

Berlioz: *vapes*

Sibelius: nature is here and shes looking more beautiful than ever

Mahler: nature is here and shes PISSED

Shostakovich: fuck stalin, fuck the police, fuck tonality

Respighi: nature is here and shes a man

Messiaen: is there a subtype of furries specifically for birds?

Schoenberg: why limit yourself to just one key?

Ives: why limit yourself to just 12 notes?

Britten: gay? never heard of it

Grainger: nobody will comment on your bdsm roleplay if you write catchy tunes


Reich: clap clap clap clap clap clap clap clap clap clap clap clap clap

Glass: play these 8 measures 37 times then repeat

Cage: *drags piano bench across the stage then walks offstage*


feel free to add more

Romeo dashes upon the funeral couch, snatches the beloved body from it, tearing the veils and the winding-sheet, and brings it to the front of the stage where he holds it upright in his arms. Juliet gazes languidly around her with her dim eyes, Romeo calls her by name, hugs her in a distraught embrace, smooths away the hair which is hiding her pale forehead, covers her face with mad kisses, is carried away with gusts of convulsive laughter; in his heart-rending joy he has forgotten that he is about to die. Juliet breathes. Juliet! Juliet!
—  Berlioz, on Garrick’s creative direction of the Death Scene, in À Travers Chant (tr. by Ian Kemp)

anonymous asked:

Okay, but, the aristocats is one of my all time favorite movies and I know the whole thing by heart I'm crying,, lil Keith(berlioz) being soaked and all terrified of a frog and hiding underneath mama Allura(duchess) and Pidge(Marie) just making fun of hi m

this au is mostly just chubby kittens complaining hghkdjhgsgds

Shark Week

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,675

Warnings: Talk of periods and things associated with periods

Prompt: Dean tries to convince Y/N that he’s not embarrassed by her period, and she shouldn’t be either. He tries his hardest to take care of her in these miserable days.

A/N: This is my very late submission for @jayankles “Bailey’s Disney Quote Challenge” my quote was “Ladies do not start fights, but they can finish them.” – Marie, The AristoCats It is Bolded in the fic.

Originally posted by dean---winchester---imagines

You moaned as you woke up way too early for your liking and in a lot more pain than normal. The hunt the other day was rough but it wasn’t that rough. It wasn’t rough enough to make you feel like tiny gremlins were stabbing you in the abdomen and back and some other little devil was pumping air into your stomach and making it swell like a balloon.

On the bright side, at least you weren’t pregnant.

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His music was spontaneous, miraculous. He found it without seeking it, without previous intimation of it. It came upon his piano sudden, complete, sublime, or it sang in his head during a walk, and he was impatient to hear it himself with the help of the instrument. But then began the most desperate labor that I have ever witnessed. It was a succession of efforts, hesitations and moments of impatience to recapture certain details of the theme he could hear; what he had conceived as one piece, he analyzed too much in trying to write it down, and his dismay at his inability to rediscover it in what he thought was its original purity threw him into a kind of despair. He would lock himself up in his room for whole days, weeping, pacing back and forth, breaking his pens, repeating or changing one bar a hundred times, writing and erasing it as many times, and beginning again the next day with an infinite and desperate perseverance. He sometimes spent six weeks on one page, only in the end to write it exactly as he had sketched at the first draft.
—  Hector Berlioz on Chopin