Latest news with #firstlove
South China Morning Post
23-07-2025
- Entertainment
- South China Morning Post
Disney+ K-drama The Nice Guy: Lee Dong-wook tries to go straight in gangland drama
Lead cast: Lee Dong-wook, Lee Sung-kyung, Park Hoon Latest Nielsen rating: 3.23 per cent A few months after appearing as the head of an insurance team in The Divorce Insurance Lee Dong-wook returns to screens in more familiar territory as a reluctant and lovable gangster trying to keep his dysfunctional family together and reconnect with his first love. Park Seok-cheol (Lee) is a respected gangster who has followed in the footsteps of his retired gangster father Park Sil-gon (Cheon Ho-jin, My Liberation Notes ). The trouble is, he never had any intention of entering the life; he always dreamed of being a poet or a novelist and now he wants out. Play
The Guardian
06-07-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
To Rest Our Minds and Bodies by Harriet Armstrong review – a singular new voice
The heart is a peculiar organ. It wants what it wants, as Emily Dickinson wrote. Especially when you're young and have no previous experience of love and desire, or the deleterious effects of time on both. This is the core subject of 24-year-old Harriet Armstrong's debut novel, To Rest Our Minds and Bodies, published by the consistently adventurous independent press Les Fugitives. When the unnamed narrator, a third-year psychology student, meets fellow student Luke in their campus kitchen, she falls hard. They begin sharing meals and confidences in her room, which bears a 'suicide beam' running the length of the ceiling. This memento mori is archly juxtaposed with the narrator's breathless infatuation, which feels as if 'some great transition was occurring inside me, something was aligning, I could actually feel it'. She finds herself 'wide open and completely soft like a small trembling animal held in two hands, two hands which could crush it completely but which would not'. Armstrong expertly adumbrates the emotional intensity and vulnerability of first love, with every page bearing a startling observation or wry aside. The world is made anew: 'I had never seen a winter which was so yellow … before Luke I had never really felt gendered … Luke and I were inventing ourselves.' Of course, her loved one is filtered through her perceptions, and while he is intelligent and attractive, we can also see that he's a self-involved, self-pitying young man, with all that entails. He leaves her dangling and fails to reciprocate her abundant, overflowing emotions. Unlike us, she can't see him objectively. Nor can she see herself fully. While she's aware that her self-conscious awkwardness is the result of her neurodivergence, she's yet to gain the self-knowledge that might deter her from withholding men such as Luke. And so we fear for her future the deeper she falls. What's compelling is that unlike, say, Esther in The Bell Jar, the narrator has no perspective through which to filter her descent. At times the novel is unbearably intense, like experiencing the essence of obsession as it's lived in every moment – which is not to say that it isn't also very funny. Armstrong astutely atomises the gen Z world of online living and flat sharing: 'I didn't want to get up to go and make breakfast and be faced with some shirtless boy cooking ramen'. The passage where the narrator Googles vaginal dilators will, for a number of reasons, bring tears to the eyes. Armstrong's voice is by turns jejune, candid and ludic, but always aware of its effects and its commitment to emotional truth. The Cartesian split alluded to in the title is crucial. While cerebral and obsessively analytical, the narrator is equally fervent about engaging with the messily somatic: 'Perhaps sex was a necessary component of the life that I wanted, perhaps some things really couldn't be accessed at all except through sex.' Luke is ambivalent about her joining Tinder. And so she embarks on a series of tragic dates, losing her virginity with a thirtysomething comedian in a sex scene of almost surreal awkwardness, but written with such dark humour and insight that it ends up feeling triumphant. Almost inevitably, Luke eventually turns away from her. Memories of their time together pour back 'like some biblical flood or plague'. Eventually, it becomes 'impossible to even breathe without thinking of Luke'. At the book's close, she is invited to his 24th birthday party, aware that he's moved on but unable to process the fact, leading to a searing denouement. The final scene is as deft and devastating as the conclusion to a Cheever story. While ostensibly belonging to the subgenre of novels about young women negotiating 21st-century relationships, To Rest Our Minds and Bodies is a world away from the derogatory label 'sad girl lit'. It announces Armstrong as a bright and singular voice in literary fiction. To Rest Our Minds and Bodies by Harriet Armstrong is published by Les Fugitives (£14.99). To support the Guardian order your copy at Delivery charges may apply.
The Guardian
05-07-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
To Rest Our Minds and Bodies by Harriet Armstrong review – a singular new voice
The heart is a peculiar organ. It wants what it wants, as Emily Dickinson wrote. Especially when you're young and have no previous experience of love and desire, or the deleterious effects of time on both. This is the core subject of 24-year-old Harriet Armstrong's debut novel, To Rest Our Minds and Bodies, published by the consistently adventurous independent press Les Fugitives. When the unnamed narrator, a third-year psychology student, meets fellow student Luke in their campus kitchen, she falls hard. They begin sharing meals and confidences in her room, which bears a 'suicide beam' running the length of the ceiling. This memento mori is archly juxtaposed with the narrator's breathless infatuation, which feels as if 'some great transition was occurring inside me, something was aligning, I could actually feel it'. She finds herself 'wide open and completely soft like a small trembling animal held in two hands, two hands which could crush it completely but which would not'. Armstrong expertly adumbrates the emotional intensity and vulnerability of first love, with every page bearing a startling observation or wry aside. The world is made anew: 'I had never seen a winter which was so yellow … before Luke I had never really felt gendered … Luke and I were inventing ourselves.' Of course, her loved one is filtered through her perceptions, and while he is intelligent and attractive, we can also see that he's a self-involved, self-pitying young man, with all that entails. He leaves her dangling and fails to reciprocate her abundant, overflowing emotions. Unlike us, she can't see him objectively. Nor can she see herself fully. While she's aware that her self-conscious awkwardness is the result of her neurodivergence, she's yet to gain the self-knowledge that might deter her from withholding men such as Luke. And so we fear for her future the deeper she falls. What's compelling is that unlike, say, Esther in The Bell Jar, the narrator has no perspective through which to filter her descent. At times the novel is unbearably intense, like experiencing the essence of obsession as it's lived in every moment – which is not to say that it isn't also very funny. Armstrong astutely atomises the gen Z world of online living and flat sharing: 'I didn't want to get up to go and make breakfast and be faced with some shirtless boy cooking ramen'. The passage where the narrator Googles vaginal dilators will, for a number of reasons, bring tears to the eyes. Armstrong's voice is by turns jejune, candid and ludic, but always aware of its effects and its commitment to emotional truth. The Cartesian split alluded to in the title is crucial. While cerebral and obsessively analytical, the narrator is equally fervent about engaging with the messily somatic: 'Perhaps sex was a necessary component of the life that I wanted, perhaps some things really couldn't be accessed at all except through sex.' Luke is ambivalent about her joining Tinder. And so she embarks on a series of tragic dates, losing her virginity with a thirtysomething comedian in a sex scene of almost surreal awkwardness, but written with such dark humour and insight that it ends up feeling triumphant. Almost inevitably, Luke eventually turns away from her. Memories of their time together pour back 'like some biblical flood or plague'. Eventually, it becomes 'impossible to even breathe without thinking of Luke'. At the book's close, she is invited to his 24th birthday party, aware that he's moved on but unable to process the fact, leading to a searing denouement. The final scene is as deft and devastating as the conclusion to a Cheever story. While ostensibly belonging to the subgenre of novels about young women negotiating 21st-century relationships, To Rest Our Minds and Bodies is a world away from the derogatory label 'sad girl lit'. It announces Armstrong as a bright and singular voice in literary fiction. To Rest Our Minds and Bodies by Harriet Armstrong is published by Les Fugitives (£14.99). To support the Guardian order your copy at Delivery charges may apply.
WebMD
23-06-2025
- Entertainment
- WebMD
Sing the Damn Song: Pride, Power, and the Joy of Sounding Like You
I've been thinking about my first love lately. No, not my first serious boyfriend, Paul, nor my first hardcore crush in high school, Rick (oh, how cute he was in his corduroy OP shorts!), nor Patrick Duffy in the too-short-lived '70s TV show, The Man from Atlantis. My very first love, the first thing that gave me an identity, that made me feel like my authentic self, was singing. Singing was the first thing that surpassed all my weaknesses, that was a quality in myself that I knew was special. As a kid, I was super self-conscious. I was short, chubby, and allergic to everything green that grows. My brothers and sister were all super smart and on teams where they ran outside in the Arizona heat, throwing balls, hitting balls, and kicking balls. I've never understood that. Why would you want to be outside running around, sweaty and gross, when you could be inside in the air conditioning, in closer proximity to where snack cakes are kept? When I was in about third grade, my music teacher, Miss Balkenbush, took me aside after class. She told me about the Phoenix Boys Choir, an all-boys group that is internationally recognized for excellence and performs around the country and the world. They were holding auditions, and she thought that I should try out. I remember running home after school to tell my folks and hope they'd let me audition. Well, they did, and I was lucky enough to spend five years in the choir, touring Europe, Canada, and the country, even singing at the National Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony and meeting President Carter. The kids at school took my membership in the choir as another opportunity to bully me, but I knew that singing for the president was way cooler than being on any soccer team. I sang all through high school, fell in love with musicals in high school, and moved to New York. I pursued a career in theater, and although I had a high caliber of rejection (there were several Broadway shows that didn't want me in them), mostly I waited tables. One thing about my singing: No one ever accused me of having a beautiful voice. Or even a pretty one. Usually, if my singing was described at all, it was called 'good' or 'strong.' When I moved away from pursuing singing, no one was disappointed. Fast-forward to five years ago. My life has moved away from pursuing a professional performance career (although I dip my toe in from time to time). But a few years ago, I realized I was neglecting my first love. I missed singing, so I found a new voice teacher. In our first lesson, my teacher stopped me after singing only one phrase. 'Too much,' he said. 'Too much what?' I asked. 'Too much air, too much tongue, too much pushing, too much, too much!' He also informed me that I was a tenor, a notion to which I scoffed. Never in my whole life have I been able to sing any kind of high note without blood spurting from my vocal chords, let alone a tenor-type range. Alas, the teacher was right. Neal Harrelson (that's his real name, in case you're in need of a voice teacher) has taught me, in the past few years, that I am indeed a tenor, with a high B-flat, no less! I've also realized how difficult it is to sing, and sing healthfully. Neal has given me a technique that gives me more confidence in my sound than I've ever had. Still not a beautiful sound, but free and without tension or anything unhealthy. I started working on a song about six months back that I feel I have no business singing, it's so beautiful and outside of my skill set. ('Answer Me' from the musical The Band's Visit.) But I wanted a challenge, and I figured that whatever I learn in this hard song, I can transfer over to easier material. Skip ahead to a few weeks ago. We're working through the song with Neal plunking a rudimentary accompaniment (he plays piano like a precocious second grader). I started from the beginning of the song, really concentrating, focusing on how I'm making the sound more than what my voice sounds like. I was feeling like the song was going well, and made it to the end. After the last note, both Neal and I were silent. Then he said, 'Oh, my God, that was beautiful! That was beautiful!' We were both in tears as he continued, 'That's bel canto, honey. That's bel canto. That's beautiful singing! I left that lesson on a cloud. Realizing how I've not only made progress in my vocal technique, but my first love rewarded me with dulcet tones. During this Pride, among your passionate protests, sparkly dances, and wonton pleasures, I invite you to honor your first love. Write that book. Sing that song. Crochet that afghan, whatever! Do it. At this time when so much is threatening, when the government seems to want all LGBTQ folks and people living with HIV dead, being your authentic self is an act of rebellion.
ABC News
18-06-2025
- Entertainment
- ABC News
Ange Green dances with her daughter to Taylor Swift
Ange Green captured the moment she first felt love for her baby after battling postnatal depression while dancing to Taylor Swift.
