#19th century literature got it

[myfanfictiongarden]

Listening to the August 11th entry I got once again so mad! at most adaptations getting the story and characters so wrong! What do you mean Lucy “wanted” or “deserved” Dracula attacking her? The poor baby girl was under hypnosis and shivering when Mina found her on the bench, not to mention mentally exhausted already by the dark influences before.

What do you mean Mina is a “passive” Victorian Lady? Girl is a working-class independent woman who instead of having a relaxing summer constantly takes care of her bff, saves her on multiple occasions from bigger harm, keeps a cold head while racing in the middle of the night across the whole town to save her friend, and knows how to take care from dangers when walking alone home in the dark. Not to mention her own heart being full of worry for her beloved fiancé as well.

[warblingandwriting]

No one does revenge like The Count of Monte Cristo. It's all physical violence and murder these days, what ever happened to completely psychologically destroying your former tormentors and ruining their lives?

[burningvelvet]

On this day, 189 years ago: 16-year-old Emily Brontë and 14-year-old Anne Brontë write a diary entry:

November the 24

1834 Monday

Emily Jane Brontë

Anne Brontë

I fed Rainbow, Diamond Snowflake Jasper pheasant this morning. Branwell went down to Mr. Driver's and brought news that Sir Robert Peel was going to be invited to stand for Leeds. Anne and I have been peeling apples for Charlotte to make us an apple pudding and for Aunt nuts and apples. Charlotte said she made puddings perfectly and she was of a quick but limited intellect. Taby said just now Come Anne pilloputate (i.e. pill a potato). Aunt has come into the kitchen just now and said where are your feet Anne? Anne answered On the floor Aunt. papa opened the parlour door and gave Branwell a letter saying here Branwell read this and show it to your Aunt and Charlotte – The Gondals are discovering the interior of Gaaldine, Sally Mosley is washing in the back kitchen.

It is past Twelve o'clock. Anne and I have not tidied ourselves, done our bedwork or done our lessons and we want to go out to play. We are going to have for Dinner Boiled Beef, Turnips, potatoes and applepudding. The Kitchin is in a very untidy state. Anne and I have not done our music exercise which consists of b major. Taby said on my putting a pen in her face Ya pitter pottering there instead of pilling a potate. I answered O Dear, O Dear, O dear I will directly. With that I get up, take a knife and begin pilling (finished) pilling the potatoes. Papa going to walk. Mr. Sunderland expected.

        Anne and I say I wonder what we shall be like and what we shall be and where we shall be if all goes on well in the year 1874 – in which year I shall be in my 54th year Anne will be going in her 55th year Branwell will be going in his 58th year And Charlotte in her 59th year hoping we shall all be well at that time we close our paper

Emily and Anne

November the 24 1834

[rapha-reads]

Anne Rice, IWTV, Part 3, Armand to Louis:

"'It is through you that I can save myself from the despair which I've described to you as our death. It is through you that I must make my link with this nineteenth century and come to understand it in a way that will revitalize me, which I so desperately need. [...] No. I must make contact with the age. [...] And I can do this through you . . . not to learn things from you which I can see in a moment in an art gallery or read in an hour in the thickest books . . . you are the spirit, you are the heart.'

'No, no.' I threw up my hands. I was on the point of a bitter, hysterical laughter. 'Don't you see? I'm not the spirit of any age. I'm at odds with everything and always have been! I have never belonged anywhere with anyone at any time!' It was too painful, too perfectly true.

But his face only brightened with an irresistible smile. He seemed on the verge of laughing at me, and then his shoulders began to move with this laughter. 'But Louis,' he said softly. 'This is the very spirit of your age. Don't you see that? Everyone else feels as you feel. Your fall from grace and faith has been the fall of a century.'"

Alfred de Musset, Confession d'un enfant du siècle, chapitre 2 :

"Trois éléments partageaient donc la vie qui s’offrait alors aux jeunes gens : derrière eux un passé à jamais détruit*, s’agitant encore sur ses ruines, avec tous les fossiles des siècles de l’absolutisme ; devant eux l’aurore d’un immense horizon, les premières clartés de l’avenir** ; et entre ces deux mondes… quelque chose de semblable à l’Océan qui sépare le vieux continent de la jeune Amérique, je ne sais quoi de vague et de flottant, une mer houleuse et pleine de naufrages, traversée de temps en temps par quelque blanche voile lointaine ou par quelque navire soufflant une lourde vapeur ; le siècle présent, en un mot, qui sépare le passé de l’avenir, qui n’est ni l’un ni l’autre et qui ressemble à tous deux à la fois, et où l’on ne sait, à chaque pas qu’on fait, si l’on marche sur une semence ou sur un débris***.

[...] Il leur restait donc le présent, l’esprit du siècle, ange du crépuscule, qui n’est ni la nuit ni le jour ; ils le trouvèrent assis sur un sac de chaux plein d’ossements, serré dans le manteau des égoïstes, et grelottant d’un froid terrible. L’angoisse de la mort leur entra dans l’âme à la vue de ce spectre moitié momie et moitié fœtus**** [...]

Toute la maladie du siècle présent vient de deux causes ; le peuple qui a passé par 93 et par 1814 porte au cœur deux blessures. Tout ce qui était n’est plus, tout ce qui sera n’est pas encore. Ne cherchez pas ailleurs le secret de nos maux*****."

............

Anne Rice definitely read Musset. And Musset would have ADORED Armand and loathed Louis - or maybe the contrary. And depending on when exactly during the 19th century Armand and Louis met, Armand might have already read Musset, and Louis would read him at the end of the century - Confession was published in 1836.

Translations of the passages in bold (translation by me and it's 4am for me right now, so don't expect a perfect work):

*"behind them a past forever destroyed"

**"in front of them, the dawn of an immense horizon, the first lights of the future"

***"the present century, in a word, what separates the past from the future, which is neither one nor the other and which resembles both at the same time, and where one does not know, with each step one takes, if one steps on a seed or rubble"

****"The anguish of death entered their souls at the sight of this specter, half mummy and half fetus."

*****"All that was is no more, all that will be is not yet. Do not look elsewhere for the secret of our ills."

There's a whole Comparative Literature essay that could be written, mirroring Confession with Interview... I will definitely come back to that idea later. Probably. At some point.

[sere-ness-ima]

(source: En avant marche ! by Gérard de Nerval, 1831, Polish translation: Wiesław Mateusz Malinowski)

i'm soooooooo normal about them

but also how is it no matter how good of a hetalia writer you are there's always some romantic poet who wrote it better (and first)

[imbadatnicknames1]

I read Beowulf in English class and for a project we got the choice to do a comic of one of the battles and I went WAY overboard. I thought I might as well post it here for funsies or somethin. I decided to draw the battle between Beowulf and Grendel (my beloved) 💖💖

[hergan416]

I definitely didn't check "A Study in Scarlet" out from the library and screw up my sleep schedule to satisfy my curiosity about what liberties with the source material are being taken in Moriarty the Patriot.

[woodland-ghosts]

the emergence of the War of the Worlds tripod from the portal Melinda created!

[kaxen]

I know academic books don't really have an Art Budget™ but like god some of them just make me go idfghgdufjhudjfhkf

[nyancrimew]

confession: two weeks ago my friends got sick of me slowly cooking to death in my self-pitying emotional soup of heartbreak, took me out for drinks, and installed a dating app on my phone. we are all in the same degree at uni (i'm 25 + i promise this is relevant), in a faculty that is extremely quaint and mostly comprised of academics married to people with normal jobs. two years ago a teacher-couple joined our program's faculty, a fact that caused a minor riot within the teaching staff, who thought it was unfair to give two of four tenured jobs to a couple... unfortunately for them both of these profs are extremely beloved among the students and very good teachers at that. even if you've never taken classes from either of them, you know about this couple and probably whatever rumors are going around about them too. i've taken classes w/ both.

anyway. back to me on the dating app in the bar with my friends, pretty drunk, swiping though my bumble suggestions. for extra fun, we have set the minimum age to 30 and the gender to include "both" even though i am a lesbian. the whole table is viciously tearing down dating profiles, investigating their pictures, etc. i go to the bar to get another round for the group, am about to pay for our drinks when i hear a virtual SHRIEK from our corner. i get back, dish our drinks out. my phone is in the middle of the table, untouched by anyone like it's a cursed object. i look at the screen. it's them, our teacher couple. they have a shared dating profile, stating that they are "looking for someone to explore her bisexuality with". lesbian readers will know that this is not exactly an uncommon profile type to find, but still, seeing it from people who have taught basically everything you know about 19th century literature is... quite something. so naturally i decide to swipe right before anyone can stop me.

maia, i am so proud to report: i fucked that man's wife, she was absolutely lovely, and we will see each other again, and i am currently taking another class from her husband where the vibe is more than chill. my friends have been sworn to secrecy, but i know it's only a matter of time before someone slips up and the rumor mill starts churning... but who cares? i haven't thought about my ex since!

OH MY GOD HOLY SHIT

[sagankid]

*cracks fingers* i'm glad you asked

Reblog this post and put in the tags how gothic horror literature has changed you. I'll go first My vocabulary has been changed to that of a fucking Victorian scientist bumbling on about his endeavors and whims. I can also never look at a green potion the same, and whenever I hear the word "Hide" I have the sudden urge to freak out and autism all over the place

[deimos-the-wolf]

Me: I am going to check out my tumblr feed

@howdydowdy: I am going to create a feed that is so full of Moby Dick

(this is joke btw, I love your blog <3)

[robinsfilm]

16, CLUMSY AND SHY 01

PAIRING: jason todd ✗ gn!reader ;

SYNOPSIS: jason todd and you try and navigate young puppy love ;

WARNINGS: none at all, maybe me rambling a bit about emma and eli (boule de suif) ;

WORD COUNT: 2.0k ;

NOTES: this was inspired by @jteime 's asks. haven't added the marvel crossover part, but i enjoyed writing this kind of teen au so much that i might add a second part. it's just i've never done a crossover so bear with me here 🐻

── .✦ MASTERLIST & NAVIGATION & AO3.

THE LINGERING HINT OF CHALK AND DRY ERASE MARKERS DO NOTHING TO SOOTHE JASON'S NERVES. Instead, they leave an uncomfortable taste on his tongue. The smell is a heavy one, just like the weight in the pit of his stomach. It's like an anchor, bringing him down into the dark sea with nothing to cling onto.

Jason threw the idea of trying to compose himself out of the window as soon as he entered the rather small classroom. His hands gripped the dense books and slightly crumpled papers close to his chest, fingers awkwardly wrapped around his pencil so as to not drop it.

Walk into the room with your head held high, babybird. Confidence is key, he remembers Dick saying.

Well, he isn't like Dick, nor Bruce. He can't help but feel the thousands of pairs of eyes on his back, scrutinizing every step he takes.

Comparative Literature.

This is supposed to be a course Jason enjoys, not one that makes him feel as if he's walking on needles, not one that makes the air feel to heavy and the hours spent in the classroom too long and miserable.

Jason speeds to his desk near the corner of the room, next to the window. His eyes often wander to it, watching the same part of the courtyard staring back at him through the window. He settles his supplies on his desk.

The Art of Realism: Depicting Social Class and Individual Morality in 19th-Century Literature.

The title of the essay states back at him. The review session is creeping up closely and the horrid anticipation of it feels as if it's going to eat him whole.

Jason knows it's silly, it's just a classroom, not the streets of Gotham at the dead of night. Hell, he'd be more comfortable in some run down alley than he is now in this room, with it's grating sound of the chalk and suffocating smell of the markers.

His thoughts threaten to drown out the rest of the world, until the sound of the chair next to him being moved catches him off guard.

The sound makes him tear his gaze away from his papers to the stranger sitting down next to him. A new student, maybe?

By the way your knuckles are turning white from gripping the chair to hard, Jason can tell you're nervous too.

“I’m sorry,” you stammer, “I didn't mean to interrupt you.”

He moves closer to the wall next to him to offer you more space, a bit perplexed on why you'd choose to sit with him.

“N–no, it's alright.” He responds, ducking his head down and facing the window. He catches the little frown on your face reflected on the window glass, fogged from the cold air outside. He sees the way the corner of your lips drop as he turns away.

Shit. He's being rude. This is totally not what Dick taught him.

“Uh,” he hesitates, searching for something to say, “are you new here? It's just I haven't seen you around.”

Jason hopes he's right. If not, he's made himself look like more of a jerk in front of you for basically saying he's never noticed your presence.

You nod as you answer. “Yep! I'm really glad I got in.” A small smile dances on your lips in a way that has Jason paying attention with the way your cheeks rise up when you grin, making your eyes smile alongside you.

They smile with their eyes.

He gets caught off guard again when you shuffle closer to take a look at the papers scattered around his part of the shared desk.

‘...wept, and sometimes a sob she could not restrain was heard in the darkness between two verses of the song.’

Your quiet but melodic voice carries the words with a softness Jason only imagined in his mind. The same way he read the words on worn-out papers during the countless nights he spent in the manor library, tucked away, sure of the fact he'd never hear it from another person.

The world has a funny way of proving Jason wrong. He's staring at your lips, thinned in concentration just like your furrowed brows.

“Boule de Suif!—” You exclaim, before your eyes go wide and you muffle your words with a hand over your mouth. “—Sorry!”

Jason chuckles before relaxing into the chair. “It's okay.” He shuffles closer to you, peering down at your own essay written on neat paper, so unlike his own. The words on the pages are all too familiar to him.

‘There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,’—’

Jason can't help but smile as he whispers to you, “—There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness of heart,” he doesn't even notice the proximity of the two of you, the warmth of your presence wafts around him like the sun after a rainy day, “‘Emma’?”

You smile again, the twinkle in your eye appearing again. “Yes,” You breathe out, before your eyes go wide just like last time.

“I didn't even introduce myself.” Your name leaves your lips like a secret whispered to only him.

He thinks of your name, every syllable dances around his mind before he gives you his.

“Jason— Jason Todd.”

Maybe this classroom isn't so horrible after all, he thinks.

*****

The stadium is too loud, Jason concludes after being stuck in there for about thirty minutes. More precisely – thirty-five minutes and forty seconds, now forty-one, since he keeps checking the time and counting down to the moment when the bell rings and he can finally leave.

The air is too heavy, it feels too warm. The gym clothes are sticking and moving across his skin in such an uncomfortable way, he can't think straight. Standing all alone and leaning against the grainy surface of the wall isn't helping either.

If Jason hears the damn ball hit the stadium wall one more time, he swears he'll walk out that door himself–

“Hey!” A nervous voice calls out to him. Surprisingly, it doesn't feel as grating as the sounds of the gym.

It's you. It's you, with your hair, messy in a perfectly imperfect way. A light volleyball rests between your arm and side. Your chest rises with every breath.

Jason feels his own breath get caught in his chest as he stumbled to say something to you.

The class isn't practicing volleyball right now. So, where did you come from?

You don't wait for him to say something. “I was wondering if—” you grip the light ball in your hands, offering it to him“—you’d like to give it a try?” You zip your mouth shut as fast as you say those words.

Jason blinks. Someone wants me to join them, to hang out with them. And hell, that someone is you.

“Best of three?” He suggests.

“Prepare for utter defeat, Todd.”

“I'd like to see you try.”

*****

The courtyard is a little too quiet for Jason's liking. He should be happy, he can finally gather his thoughts without anything getting in his way.

For some reason those thoughts are only occupied by a certain someone who shows up just at the right time, saving him from the utter boredom and misery of Gotham Academy life.

He wishes he could hear you call out to him again. The way his last name sounds so natural on your tongue. How you're so unafraid of speaking it.

Jason thinks you're brave. Probably much braver than him. He still can feel his breath get ripped right out of his lungs when he tries to get your attention. The way your name gets stuck in his mouth, kept inside him just like his wishes and attempts to spend time with you.

The first step is always difficult, Bruce had said to him a few days back, after that it gets easier.

Gets easier? Jason thinks Bruce was lying to him somehow. He feels his face warm up and brows furrowing. Why was the thought of approaching you getting him so worked up?

It's not like you had felt any different. You were nervous too, right? Or did he imagine that? He should ask, right? Yes, he should.

Jason knows exactly where you settle down to eat your lunch— that almost abandoned side of the garden west of the Academy. If he's quick enough, he can make it to you before the bell rings.

He's about to sprint out of the courtyard when he hears the same soothing voice call out to him.

“Todd!”

He doesn't know why it calms him down so quickly.

“There you are.” You say as you walk to him with a lunchbox in your hand.

“Here.” You push it forwards to him, the chocolate chip cookies smell waft in the air and it almost distracts him from the way your free hand is tucking the loose hair strands away from your face. “My dad made extra.”

“Oh—” he stutters while a shy smile appears on his lips. “—thank you.”

“No problem.” You smile at him and he watches the way your cheeks rise up just like the day in the corner of the classroom.

They smile with their eyes.

Jason wonders if you ever notice how he only smiles when he's with you. Do you notice how he only talks with you?

Silly, isn't it?

*****

The sun is staring down at Jason as he walks down the cobblestone road to the gate. Just beyond that Bruce sits in the car waiting.

Jason's gripping his backpack closer to his body. He tried to slow down his steps. His eyes dart around him, trying to find you, with your perfectly imperfect messy hair tied back, neat papers and folders in your arms as you walk home.

He isn't going to back down from this. Jason hasn't backed down from facing robbers and all kinds of criminals in the darkest parts of Gotham and he won't be frightened by this either.

By this, he means asking for your number.

His fingers wrap around the cold car door handle as he glances one more time around the yard, eyes looking for you.

“Searching for something?—”

Jason's ears perk up as he hears Bruce's calculated words. Calculated in a way he knows that his dad is trying not to sound obvious that he has figured out the fact that something or a certain someone is tugging at his son's heart.

“—or someone?”

Maybe Bruce noticed it when his son came back considerably more relaxed and happy after School, or maybe, it was when Dick told him that Jason seemed very interested in learning how to approach someone and ask them to hang out.

Jason scolds himself for being so obvious. His palms start to sweat.

“No—” the words die on his tongue as he spots you leaving the gates of the Academy.

Jason leaves Bruce waiting in the car as he runs up to you, yelling out your name.

He can see how quickly you recognise his voice, how quickly you snap out of what reverie you were lost in and how your eyes search across the yard to find him. Jason's heart aches when he sees how your eyes smile just like last time when you finally spot him.

You say his name, the sound is too sweet with your voice. He wonders how it would sound when talking on the phone. Jason concludes it doesn't matter if it's in person or on the phone, miles away.

He just wants to hear you.

“I was wondering if—” he stops to look into your eyes, the twinkle in them remind him of the lone star in the obsidian midnight sky. “—if I could get your number?”

Jason sees the surprise on your face, the faint pink hue on your cheeks, the fidgeting of your fingers.

“Y’know,” he stammers, “for school work and such.” He's lying. He's sure you know as well, because the warmth of his cheeks is probably caused by the same pink hue on them just like the one on yours.

“Of course.” You blurt out, “why didn't I think of that?” You giggle, the sound of it like a song to his ears.

“Let me be the one who asks this,” He says with a smile, “you always manage to surprise me, so…”

Your eyes nervously dart from his face to the ground near your shoes. “Well—,” you click your tongue, “—you just have to try harder next time, Todd.”

“Next time, huh?”

“Yes.”

© ROBINSFILM ﹕ I do not give consent for my writing to be posted or used on any other platforms without my permission and proper credit.

[sturnsdarling]

teenage dirtbags, part two

Skater!Matt goes to overachiever!readers dorm so she can help him with his essay

vibe check: bickering, matt fancying the fuck out of reader but being unaware, reader being a snob, kind of flirting? idk if you can call it that lol.

1.7k words

A/N: this is so FUN. in my head, Matt has always secretly thought reader was gorgeous, but any and all good natured feelings were swallowed by an avalanche of irritation and borderline hatred

intro, part one

love and cigs, merc

You were sat on the floor of your dorm, clad in a big knit jumper, little shorts and fluffy socks, cross legged on the carpet with a pencil dangling from your mouth as you scanned the margins of some 19th century text about the French Revolution.

You were pulled from your focus by the sound of your door rattling, three short knocks sounding through your room over the low hum of your record playing in the back.

You looked to your watch, 7:03, Matt was actually on time.

You pushed yourself up off the floor and made your way over to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open with a less than welcoming look on your face. You were met with Matt, board in hand and headphones hung round his neck, a flat grin on his face that quickly dropped.

Matt couldn't help but scan your figure, he'd never seen you in anything other than your clean cut outfits, so seeing you in a baggy jumper that hung off your bare shoulder and shorts that just covered your ass was, interesting.

"come in" you said, pulling Matt from his accidental objectifying gaze and stepping to the side to let him in.

"thanks" Matt said as he walked past you, taking in the sight of your room, it actually did smell like vanilla and academic over achievement.

You had more books than he had ever seen in his entire life, the walls covered by rows of bookshelves all packed to the brim with classic literature.

"this is a lot of books" Matt said, gawking at your collection.

You nodded, lips tucked between your teeth as you raised your brows slightly.

"have you read all of these?" Matt asked, pointing at the shelves.

you scoffed with a smile, "no" you shook your head, "just over half, probably"

"that's still impressive" Matt shrugged, dropping his stuff on the floor.

"should we get started?" You said, wanting to cut the small talk and get this over with.

"yeah, sure" Matt said, following your movement and sitting on the floor opposite you, pulling a bunch of crumpled up notes from his bag.

You looked at them in disgust as he tried to flatten them out on the floor, shaking your head as you got up, scanning over your shelves to find anything you had on existentialism. You pulled a few books out and returned to the floor, opening them and scanning over the pages. Your movement grabbed Matts attention, him watching you intently as you began to rip through all the possible approaches he could take, listing off essay summaries as if you knew them like the back of your hand.

Matt wasn't listening, mostly because he had no idea what you were talking about, but also because your hair was falling in your face slightly as you leaned down to scan the books, the strands framing your face perfectly as you spoke with your plump, glossy lips. Matt noticed the small constellation of freckles on your nose, how your eyes darted around the room as you spoke, as if you were literally searching your brain for information, how your brows knit together every time you said 'obviously' and how...what the fuck is going on

"are you even listening?" you snapped, pulling matt from his haze.

"huh?" he said, meeting your glaring eyes, "yeah, yeah, I'm listening" Matt said, shaking the thoughts from his brain.

"because I don't have to do this for you, you know that right? I have much better things to be doing with my time and you're honestly the last person I want to spent my evenings helping" you began to complain, your tone cocky and fed up

"charming" Matt scoffed, "trust me, y/l/n, you're not exactly someone I want to be spending my evenings with either" Matt quipped back, matching your cadence.

"right, well, maybe if you listen to me, this can go a lot faster, and we can go back to pretending we don't know each other" you said with finality.

"fine" Matt shrugged, holding your eye contact

"fine" you repeated, having to get the final word

Matt chuckled, shaking his head with a slight eye roll. You squinted at him, scrunching your face up as his attitude.

"what?" you spat.

Matt couldn't help but grin, "you haven't changed at all" He met your gaze once more.

"what are you talking about?" you said, your voice thick with attitude.

"you always have to have the last word" Matt shifted where he sat, bringing his knee up as a rest for his arm.

"no, I don't" you replied with a scoff.

"yeah, you do" Matt grinned, nodding.

"no, I don't" you pushed.

Matt didn't respond, only raised his eyebrows and tightened his smile, looking at you in an accusatory manner, as if you responding the way you did only proved his point.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and returning your attentions to the book in your lap, "lets just get this over and done with"

The rest of the night went...fine. There was some bickering, mostly started by Matt not listening or simply being himself. You ended up getting his introduction done before you decided it was time to take a break, needing to decompress from all the arguing.

You and Matt sat in silence, you fidgeting with your pen as you scanned over what Matt had written and Matt wandering around your room like a lost puppy, in his search through all your things, his attention was caught by the crates of records that looked as if they were holding up your mattress.

There were hundreds of them, all in alphabetical order, stacked on top of each other in the makeshift bed frame you had made with the crates. Matt scanned the names, in awe of the fact that not only did you collect music, but it was good music. Maybe you did have something in common.

"are these all yours?" Matt said, unable to take his eyes off your collection.

You looked up from the page, looking over to Matt who was crouched on the floor, peppering soft touches with his long, slender fingers over the spines of the records.

"who else's would they be?" you said, raising a brow at him as he looked over his shoulder at you.

"this is an impressive collection, y/l/n" Matt said, ignoring your attitude.

"thanks" you cocked your eyes to the side, generally irritated by him regardless of what he said.

"I didn't know you fucked with music like this" Matt returned his attention to the stacks, "maybe you're not as lame as I thought you were" he looked back to you with a boyish grin

You screwed your face up at him, giving him the biggest condescending smile you could muster up. Matt cheesed at your face, looking back to the music and scanning some titles.

"oh shit, Fleetwood Mac, I fuckin' love them" Matt said, pulling out the Rumours album and turning it over to read the track list, "still not as good as their self titled album from 75" Matt shook his head, putting the record back in its spot.

"are you serious?" you scoffed, "Rumours is easily their best album"

"absolutely not" Matt shook his head, sitting back down opposite you.

you simply stared at him for a moment, trying to process your bafflement, "In what universe is self titled better than Rumours?" you put the page in your hand down, leaning your palm on the floor so your body was towards Matt, your movement causing your jumper to fall down your shoulder slightly lower.

"In this universe?" Matt chuckled, "self titled has Rhiannon and Monday morning" He shifted, one leg tucked beneath him with the other acting as a perch for his arm, knee in the air with his foot on the carpet.

"and Rumours has the chain?" You pressed, "and dreams"

"okay, and?" Matt shrugged with a grin, drawing out his first word.

"you can't be serious?" you shook your head, "Rumours is incredible, you can literally feel the tension between the band with every sentence they sing, the energy is on a different level"

"so the album is good because everyone was beefing? how does that correlate to good music" Matt pushed, only slightly relishing in how worked up you we're getting.

"because?" you scoffed, "it's real, and raw, and the live shows were insane"

"you don't think self titled was real and raw?" Matt raised his brows at you.

"no, idiot, I didn't say that" you rolled your eyes, "rumours is just different, it was like all the anger from everything that happened was spilling out over the sheet music, it was...beautiful" your eyes wandered the ceiling as you explained your reasoning to Matt.

He couldn't help but smile as he looked at you, watching you speak so passionately about something other than how much you despised him was awe inducing, especially something like music, which he would have never have pegged you to care about this much.

You continued to argue your point, but the feeling of Matts eyes on you made your cheeks warm, and you stopped your rambling to look at him.

"what?" you deadpanned, cocking your eyes to the side quickly.

Your change in tone snapped Matt back into reality, and he was quickly reminded of who he was gawking at.

He cleared his throat, "nothing" he dropped his gaze from you, searching the floor for something to pay attention to other than the strange feeling in his stomach.

You furrowed your brows at him, watching the top of his head as he clearly tried to avoid eye contact with you at all costs. what the fuck was that about? you decided not to look into it too much.

"lets carry on, yeah?" Matt said, opening the book in his lap and clearing his throat once more.

"alright" you said, ignoring the tension in the air and returning your attention to the paper in your lap.

You spent the rest of the evening in silence, only talking if you really needed to and staying a good five feet apart at all times. Matt left once you had finished the outline for the body of his essay, still not looking at you for any longer than a second and hurrying out your room moments after you said that you could pick where you had left off tomorrow.

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[trupowieszcz-moved]

fun facts about (polish) vampire folklore because i'm too autism

(disclaimer: my source for all of this is the book "Upiór. Historia naturalna" by Łukasz Kozak i'm not pulling this out of my ass)

The word "vampire" came from a mistranscribed Serbian word, written down by Austrian officials informing about a panic among the locals, who claimed that during a plague their dead were rising and biting them and spreading the plague further

In Poland, the words used to describe what later transformed into a "vampire" in literature were: upiór (and variations thereof - the word came from Ukrainian, and the Ukrainians got it from Turkish "ubyr"), strzyga (f)/strzygoń (m) and wieszczy (m)/wieszczyca (f). "Upiór" was used in the southeast, "strzyga" around the central regions, "strzygoń" (as well as strzyga) specifically in Lesser Poland (Małopolska) and "wieszczy" in Greater Poland (Wielkopolska) and in Kashubia. "Wąpierz" was not a word until some writer in the 19th century made it up!

The upiór actually very rarely drank blood. It happened, sure, but a much more bloodthirsty creature was zmora/mara. However, upiory often drank milk, stealing it from cows and horses. Both are life-giving bodily fluids, after all.

The above might make you think about witches, who were often blamed with stealing or spoiling milk, and you wouldn't be far off. You see, you had to be born as an upiór (these ones weren't contagiously biting!), and while you were alive, it would give you various magical powers, like clairvoyance and detecting the dead upiory, and so the upiór was practically a synonym of a sorcerer or witch. Of course, the sources vary, but depending on who you asked, they could control weather bringing heavy rains or droughts, see the future, know literally everything and so on. Those so-called "living vampires" knew who they were since birth and were often helpful, until they died.

After an upiór died, that's when the bad things happened. They disappeared from their graves, destroyed churches, broke candles, brought plague upon the people, scared their neighbors, and if one puffed in your face, you would soon die. They were said to be able to walk around with their decapitated head, so anti-vampiric burials often had to be very thorough and decapitation wasn't enough.

The signs that were supposedly telling of a living vampire were, among others: being born with teeth, being born in a caul, not having armpit or pubic hair BUT having a hairy chest, not having undergone confirmation (i'll come back to that in a moment), having a very red face and easily and often blushing (not being pale!), or being born with a deformed foot.

Not having participated in the confirmation sacrament was especially damning, because it was believed that upiory had two souls (and two hearts). When they were baptized, only one soul was being saved, and the confirmation sacrament was supposed to protect the second soul. This, of course, was extremely against the catechism, so the first "official", church-related sources recording those beliefs had to invent another "backstory" for upiory, and they claim that an upiór is a dead person specifically, who was given to the devil at birth, the baptism saving their soul, but their body still belonging to the dark forces, which was why they rose from their graves - the devil basically hijacked their corpses.

I won't make this post much longer but I will GLADLY answer any questions because this is my special interest and I just came back from an exhibition where the author of the aforementioned book talked about all of that so. me right now ⬇️ (readmore so you dont get continuously blased with the gif under it)

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

this compounds (in probably a kind of 'you and your bars in the stratosphere smh' kinda way tbh but whatever) when youre reading a book from 150 years ago

i read melmoth the wanderer. irish gothic novel from 1820. i read the french translation from 1821. it's about a guy who sold his soul to the devil to...be immortal? not entirely sure if that was the point of the deal tbh he didnt seem happy with it and i never quite figured out what he actually wanted to get out of the deal, the immortality was more of a punishment it seemed

anyway, the guy is immortal. theres a portrait of him from 1646 and he (indirectly)(so, so indirectly)(god why are 19th century novels like this the suspension of disbelief necessary to keep believing in the framing of 'guy telling a story' (guy telling the story of another guy whose story he heard) (guy telling about a guy who heard a story that he heard from another guy he met) (etcetera) was really just a bit too much for me) (anyway) relates his wanderings. so theres these stories a little bit from between mid 17th century to early 19th and we're speaking to an 1820 audience right? the difference between 1640s and 1820s is close enough to the difference between 1820s and 2020s that it was a really interesting stacking of cultural impressions

like at one point the narrator was talking about the 17th century and he was like "people back then couldnt travel as fast as we do now" !!!! that was so exciting to me. looking at the depiction of the 17th century by a 19th century guy with 21st century eyes

it was complicated even more bc the author of this book was irish right (he was like oscar wilde's great uncle or something like that) (this book was super popular) (lots of like references in other stuff) (like the portrait) but most of the story is told by a spanish monk who wrecked his ship on the irish coast so a lot of the story takes place in spain. so hes not just writing about a different time but a different country too. and sometimes you can hear that when it's clunky, same as nowadays, like when they say things like "the way spanish summer nights are" or stuff like that. but most of it will be way more subtle and obviously has completely gone over my head, seeing as i, stewart lee voice, dont know anything about early 19th century irish gothic literature or 17th century spain, OR the kind of perspective that an early 19th century french translator would bring to that story and the influences that would bring PLUS the fact that im not fluent in french and cant tell the difference between 19th century french and modern french (im learning words that the dictionary calls vieilli and vx side by side with modern slang, and honestly side by side with 19th century slang, which is, again, super fun, but not very good for my cultural-temporal intuitions probably) (like when i read 19th century french i keep being struck with how not-old-fashioned it sounds compared to 19th century english or dutch. but i think thats just me. i have no sense for what words we dont use anymore. and the imparfait of the subjunctive doesnt have any oldfashioned ring to me (honestly i like it)) what was i talking about. oh yeah) so i dont really have the ability to differentiate the perspectives here entirely, theres too much all mixed together, but i still get glimpses and it's, master voice: very very interesting :)

the thing im enjoying most about learning a new language is learning new cultural context. i never noticed learning this with english probably bc youre already one foot in american pov before you even speak the language what with all the popular media coming from there, but with french i have to dig this knowledge out with my bare hands and it's really fun

like, when i read in a book that the english people at the english train station our english protagonist who just came home after 15 years exile in france is arriving at "were going about their business with their english sense of timing and rhythm", what am i supposed to understand by that? is that like a swiss clock sort of thing (another cultural reference you now realise you have learnt to understand the right way at some point even without knowing anything necessarily about swiss clocks) or more of a doctor who kind of sense of timing? what is the french cultural idea of the british and their sense of punctuality? i dont know yet! i feel like a child!