#I was the definition of a voracious reader holy shit

[an-absolute-trainwreck]

I wish I had the same motivation to read as I had as an undiagnosed autistic middle schooler

[actuallysaiyan]

YO THAT WAS SO GOOD!!!!! (and fast, holy shit) Wow that was hot, I would definitely love to see a full Lee overstim fic when you get the chance!!

Word count: 877 Pairings: Rock Lee x Reader Warnings: Overstimulation, oral sex(male receiving), smut, creampies. A/N: I'm so sorry this took me so long! I hope you enjoy it!

Lee groans as you continue to kiss a sloppy trail down his body. He knew you were going to show him a good time tonight, but he wasn’t expecting you to have such a voracious sexual appetite. He’s watching you through lidded eyes as you undress him completely, kissing him all over and making sure to suck on the sensitive spots.

“Flower,” Lee pants as you take his cock in your hand.

“Yes baby?” You ask as you wrap your lips around the head.

“Please…” Lee sighs as you begin bobbing your head up and down.

He’s barely making any sense as he continues to moan and grunt half-sensed sentences. He’s so damn turned on and the more you suck his cock, the closer he’s getting to his climax. He’s so sensitive and he cums so fast when you give him a blowjob.

“So close...so damn close,” Lee groans as he grips your hair.

You hollow your cheeks to accommodate for his big size as you allow the tip of his cock to hit the back of his throat. Lee needs to focus on his breathing so he doesn’t cum right then and there. You’re looking up at him through your lashes and he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen something as erotic as this.

One more thrust into your mouth and Lee comes undone. He’s trembling and shaking as he shoots his load down your throat. You hum and moan around him, heightening his orgasm that much more.

Lee pants as you pull off of him with an audible pop. He’s completely spent, but you are definitely not done with him. You need more of him and you want to see him writhe and squirm beneath you. Lee is literally the epitome of strength, and all you want to do is watch him beg you.

“Flower, that was amazing.” Lee says as he leans in to kiss you. You surprise him by continuing to jack him off.

He’s at a loss for words. He doesn’t know what to say or do as you continue to stroke his formerly softening cock. The more you stroke him, the harder he gets. He’s panting and whimpering as you stroke him and try to undress yourself with one hand.

“Baby,” Lee pants as you pause for a moment. Once you’re completely undressed, you straddle him. His eyes roll in the back of his head as you slide your wet folds across his length.

“Shhh, just let yourself have a little fun.” You whisper as you finally allow his cock to enter you.

You both groan as you press your pelvis to his completely. Your walls are stretched by his large size, and you are just mewling and pawing at him already.

“Lee!” You whine as you roll your hips. Lee can’t even say anything as he’s just reeling from this amazing feeling. His cock is way past overstimulated and he’s just feeling like he’s cumming over and over again.

“Baby, ‘s so good!” He says as he begins drooling slightly. You lean down to kiss him passionately, your tongue sliding into his mouth.

You’re riding him so well, and Lee is thrusting up into you with so much force and energy, but he’s slowly just succumbing to this pleasure. His whole body is shaking and shuddering, and he can feel his second orgasm creeping up on him. He’s never really had a second orgasm come on so quickly like this.

“Gonna cum, baby. Gonna fucking cum!” You love when Lee curses like this. He’s so innocent and usually he doesn’t swear, but if he’s feeling this good, you know you’re doing well.

You can feel his thighs quiver and shake as you continue to ride him. Your hands on his chest to steady yourself as you roll your hips and clench yourself around him. Lee is panting and moaning and he’s so damn close.

“Baby please! Gonna cum!” Lee cries out as he grabs onto you. You kiss him as he shoots his load deep within you, and you can feel your own orgasm coming along.

He’s completely spent, but you are still not finished. As you pick up your pace, Lee is beyond words. It feels so damn good and he can’t even think straight at this point. You’ve fucked him stupid.

“Good boy,” You praise as you rub your clit. The coil in your stomach tightens as you continue to ride his thick cock. His cum is acting as such a good lube.

“P-Please!” Lee pleads with you, and you don’t know if he’s pleading for more or for you to stop.

So you continue to roll your hips as his breathing comes out in short little gasps. He can barely keep up with you at this point, but his whole body is tingling and he’s just loving this.

When you finally cum, you thrust against him hard and moan his name. Lee grunts as he can feel your walls clench even more, which makes his cock twitch again. It’s just so fucking good.

You pull off of him and lie next to him. He’s smiling as he is beyond completely spent. He’s so satisfied.

“Next time,” You say as you kiss him. “You’ll fuck me stupid!”

[ltleflrt]

Hey Carrie! You talked a little the other day about writers' tendency to start a fic too early in the story, and how you see a lot of first scenes that could have been scrapped to improve the story. My question is if you have some tips to recognize while writing that first scene that you are starting too early in the story?

Hello friend!

That's a really good question, and I'll see if I can give an answer that makes sense. I am not a professional, and I'm not educated or trained in this stuff, it's just something that I recognize from years and years and years of voracious reading. And as with all writing advice, I encourage you to take what I'm going to say with a grain of salt and remember that no writing rule is a hard rule, only a guideline.

Also, my advice is going to be pertaining fanfiction, and specifically to AUs. Obviously a published book has an editor with a razor blade going through a manuscript for you, and the problems that bother me in fanfiction crop up in AUs more than Canonverse.

Oh, and every instance of "you" is general, not specific 😜

So I think the main problem that I see is that people are starting with an Info Dump. An Info Dump is not always a bad thing, sometimes it's completely necessary, but it is NOT where you want to start your story. If it absolutely has to be done, it's better to be somewhere in the middle or near the end. When it's something that your characters need to know.

That's an important bit: Do your characters need to know this?

And related to that: Does your audience need to know this for the story to make sense?

And very important follow up: If the answers to the above questions are yes, does the character/audience need to know this RIGHT NOW?

There's a lot of information about your story that YOU need to know. Heck, my notes files are full of sooooooo much stuff that I know about the characters and plot that never reaches the final product.

So when you're reading your first chapter (I say reading, not writing, because sometimes info dumping for your own benefit is good, and then you fix it before you share the story lol), ask yourself those two questions.

So for example:

In an AU where Dean is a tattoo artist, and it's his POV. The story starts with Dean driving to work, and when he gets there he's going to find out that the empty shop next door has been purchased and is going to be a yoga studio. He meets Castiel out front, up on a ladder trying to hang a hand painted sign, and some teens go running buy and knock into the ladder and Dean has to catch Castiel from falling. (Anyone who wants to adopt this idea is welcome to it btw, I would love to read this lol)

The mistake I often see in a first chapter like this is that as Dean is walking to work, there's a whole Info Dump about why he's a tattoo artist instead of a hunter. He'll be ambling along, thinking about his nice little business, and there's info about how his mom died in a fire, and his dad was a jerk, and Dean didn't go to college because he saved his money for Sammy's college fund, and Dean's only passion was art, and Bobby Singer introduced him to a tattoo shop owner who took Dean under his wing, etc.

Question 1, does your character need to know this?: Why is Dean reflecting on his past? Does Castiel need to know this information in order to build a romance with Dean?

Question 2, does your audience need to know this?: Why does this information matter? If Dean's only reflecting on this because you want to make sure your audience knows where the timeline changed and this became an AU, then you're starting too early in your story. Dean doesn't need to know this, and honestly in a lot of cases the reader doesn't need to know this. This is information that should have been left in your notes file.

Question 3, does the character/audience need to know this NOW?: If this information is pertinent to the plot, like maybe there's some trauma there that Castiel might need to know about to develop their relationship, then you don't want to put it HERE, you want to put it in a conversation with Castiel LATER.

If I was writing this AU, I would just start with Dean sipping his coffee, he's kinda tired because reasons, he looks up to see an unusual commotion, and has to drop his coffee and sprint forward to catch Cas. If he's reflecting on anything in this scene, it's going to be whatever made him tired, or how good/bad the coffee is this morning. Since Cas is a new business owner, they can talk about the origins of Dean's business on their first date, because it'll be a relevant response to Castiel talking about the origins of his yoga studio.

And just in general, if Dean's origin story includes a lot of canon elements, like mom dying in a fire, dad being a deadbeat, Sammy being the adorable overachieving Stanford student.... try to hide that info for as long as you can so that the audience is actually curious about it by the time the info might pop up. It's the wild divergences that are more interesting earlier on.

Okay, and then I want to talk about my giant pet peeve for a starting chapter. It's a specific kind of info dump, that often includes the stuff from above, but then goes a step further.

My nemesis, The Daily Grind.

I haven't asked the authors, so I could be wrong about this, but I feel like most of the time when this type of chapter is included in a story it is because the author wants to show the reader that the character's life is boring and meaningless before the plot's inciting incident. I can absolutely see why that might be considered an important detail about the character, but keep in mind if it's boring and meaningless to the character, it's boring and meaningless to your audience.

You know how I said earlier that writing tips should never be hard and fast rules? Well this is in regards to that Show Don't Tell rule, and it's an example of TOO MUCH showing lol

It is possible to do a daily grind in an interesting way, but only if you include a Shake Up right away. And you have to look at the 3 questions a little bit differently.

So for example:

Castiel POV, and he works in an office. His daily routine is to always get up at the same time every day, he goes for his run, he grooms himself, he has his breakfast, he goes to work and talks to Kelly about how Jack's doing in kindergarten for a few minutes before going into his office. Adler comes in to be a prick, Castiel hates him for it, and then he does his reports, has lunch hiding in a corner of the lunch room so that his co-workers will leave him alone, he does more reporting, leaves an hour after his shift technically ends, goes home to a lonely apartment that maybe includes a pet who is the only being that shows him affection, has an unsatisfying dinner of leftover takeout while watching a mindless reality tv show, then he goes to bed.

Ugh.

BORING.

Which, yeah I get it, the point is that his life is boring. But now the story is too, and I've clicked the back button before I can see how exciting it's capable of getting.

Question 1, does your character need to know this?: No. He knows. Poor thing definitely already knows.

Question 2, does your audience need to know this?: Yes, but...

Question 3, does the character/audience need to know this NOW?: Yes, but new question for ya:

Optional Question 4, why does this need to be separate from your plot's inciting incident? The answer to this 4th question is usually that it doesn't.

Chapter 2 of this type of beginning usually shows the shake up of Castiel's day. My advice is to start with the shakeup, and sprinkle in the details of what you would have put into chapter 1 to show the contrast. It's far more interesting to learn how boring Castiel's day is by starting with the shake up.

So, same scenario:

Castiel's alarm doesn't go off for some reason, OH NO HIS ROUTINE IS SHAKEN UP! You're explaining his routine while also stressing him the fuck out because he has to rush, or skip something that he normally needs to do. Action! Interesting! He gets to work late, and has to miss his conversation with Kelly about Jack because she's telling him that Adler's already in his office being a prick because Castiel isn't there waiting for him like he always is. Oh shit, he's pissing off his asshole boss! Conflict! He's so flustered by the shakeups that he misses something on his report, and he gets a call from that new marketing guy Dean Winchester who asks if they can have a meeting about it when Castiel normally takes his lunch. BAM! MEET CUTE OPPORTUNITY! While Castiel is getting all flustered by how pretty Dean is while they talk about TPS reports, he can reflect on how this is both better and worse than hiding from his co-workers in the corner of the lunch room. The rest of the day after that meeting he's thinking about how weird this day is, he still goes home an hour late, he talks to his pet about his weird day when he gets home, and maybe he still eats leftover takeout, but he's not paying attention to the reality tv show because holy shit he wants to count Dean's freckles.

In this example, you're Telling the audience about Castiel's normal routine instead of Showing them. But since it's during a plot heavy chapter, it works!

Lemme see if I can TL:DR this...

As you're reading, ask yourself who needs to know this information, why do they need to know this information, and why is it important for this information to be included early instead of later?

If the answer to any of those questions boils down to "this is backstory" instead of "this kicks off the plot", then you've started too early.

I hope this helps? I'm always nervous about giving writing advice because so much of the time I have no idea what I'm doing, and I'm just feeling around in the dark. And I definitely do not ever want to hurt an author's feelings, because this hobby is so fucking hard, and we're all fragile. Even authors who welcome con-crit with open arms will have a weak point that they're unaware of that might get poked wrong and cause a crack, ya know?

I hope anyone who gets this far who might see their own works reflected in my examples understands that I have a lot of respect for their ability to put their work out into the world, and I want them to keep doing it. We're here to have fun, okay? Okay. I love y'all 💜

[tessatechaitea]

Justice Society of America #10 (1993)

Fact: Golden Age heroes didn't have penises.

I was starfished on my bedroom floor tonight staring at the ceiling and thinking about how in my teens and twenties, I could revel in it, thinking, "Who am I? Who will I become? What does life have in store for me?" But a grown ass man doing that simply thinks, "This is it, isn't it?" At least I can lose myself in reading comic books I've already read and which I didn't really enjoy that much the first time. It might sound like a waste of time but it gives my life meaning! The most shallow of meanings, sure. But at least I'm not growing old watching conservative news because I need anything at all to light my passion. I'll say this about Fox News: they understand how old people are so bored they'll watch the dumbest shit and then get mad about it. I know other people who aren't old also watch Fox News. I don't know what the fuck is wrong with them. I guess they have fears and hatreds I hope I'll never truly understand. I just don't understand watching Fox News (or any of the other non-propaganda 24 hour news sites). People do understand there are channels which show programs that make you laugh or feel merry or that simply entertain the other non-lizard parts of your brain, right? How do you pick Fox News when you can watch Sci-fi or Buzzr Comedy Central or the Ru-Paul's Drag Race all day channel? I just realized that the people who watch Fox News basically use Twitter the same way. The majority of my feed are funny people so even when they're discussing politics, it's always entertaining (or fiercely intelligent because witty people are smart. Dumb people think they're witty (see Mike Huckabee)). But when I check out the Twitter feeds of conservatives I know, at best they'll retweet a sports tweet sandwiched between forty retweets of Ben Shapiro and Dinesh Souza. Maybe they think some of the right wing pundits they follow are funny. But calling somebody a mean name or tagging everything "liberal tears" isn't funny. It's the kind of funny that the bully's weasely sidekick guffaws over and then says, "You tell 'em, Jimmy!" Speaking of things bullies would say, it's now time for me to criticize Len Strazewski's Justice Society. Previously, some old fart named Kulak made everybody in the world begin to hate. But they aren't just randomly hating everybody else. They really seem to be bonding over their hatred for the Justice Society of America. Is this story a metaphor about me and my hatred of this comic book? Because that would be a terrible metaphor seeing as how I don't really hate this comic. I wish I did though! I'm old and I need to feel passion! I bet if I hadn't dropped cable eighteen years ago, I'd be addicted to Fox News too! No, I wouldn't be. I'm as liberal as you can be while still making offensive jokes. So not really that liberal, I guess? Maybe I'm socially, economically, and politically liberal. But I'm a complete asshole when it comes to punchlines. Don't get me wrong! I don't make offensive jokes at the expense of people different than me. I make offensive jokes about myself and those Goddamned fucking babies. Fuck those parasitic monsters. This issue begins with Starman finally reappearing.

It really wasn't exciting enough for an announcement of his return. He's just another half-balding old guy. But it lets me talk about the DC Universe show, Stargirl!

I decided to watch Stargirl because what else am I going to do with my life? Finish reading Gravity's Rainbow? I mean, I am going to do that now that I'm done re-reading those awful Lando Calrissian books. But I can't spend all of time reading Pynchon! Just too much of it! I mean, I'm only 18 pages into Gravity's Rainbow (which is further than I've ever gotten on my previous three attempts!) and I'd estimate I don't understand 5% of the words he's used. And that's me being an English Lit major who has been a voracious reader his entire 48 years (minus the ones where I couldn't read yet. Like ten or something?). I was in bed reading and didn't have a dictionary at hand so I just powered through. But I think I need to go back through and learn all of those words so I can impress the local Starbucks barista! Or are people not impressed when you use a word they have nearly zero chance of knowing and don't know you enough to keep the conversation going by asking you what that means and instead just smile and nod and glance occasionally at the tip jar? Anyway, so I've watched three episodes so far and I'll tell you how I feel about it after I mention how I've actually watched four episodes. The first episode I watched, I was impressed with because Courtney was already palling around with a bunch of legacy JSA members and the Injustice Society was trying to tackle the "Who is Stargirl?" problem and I watched it thinking, "This is really impressive how they decided to start in the middle of the story like this. I like it!" Then I went to watch episode two and I was confused because it didn't seem to follow after the previous episode. So I kept thinking, "Maybe this is a flashback?" And then eighteen minutes into it, I thought, "Maybe I didn't watch the pilot episode. I'd better check." And I started watching the first episode which I totally hadn't seen. So I guess I started with Episode 7 or something. Here are some of my tweet-thoughts on the show for those who don't follow me on Twitter (why don't you follow me on twitter? What is wrong with you? Is it because you don't know I'm @GrunionGuy?): Tweet #1: "Sometimes you think maybe you're having inappropriate thoughts but then you check to make sure the actress playing a fifteen year old Stargirl is actually 21 and then you breathe a sigh of relief and think, 'I won't be cancelled today! Unless I tweet this experience, probably.'" Tweet #2: "Sometimes you think maybe you're having inappropriate thoughts but then remember it's okay to fuck a car that's been converted into a giant robot with Luke Wilson inside of it." Tweet #3: "3rd episode of Stargirl begins with a dying white woman's final wish to her white husband that he make the world safe for their white son. She dies and he goes out into the enormous hedge maze garden of his mansion to scream into the sky about the injustice of it all. All in all, a pretty good villain origin!" That third tweet was the only one that really makes any sort of socially acceptable commentary on the show. Saying things like "Stargirl's butt doesn't look like my mouth should be inside of it because she's fifteen although the actress is twenty-one so maybe it actually does look like that?" aren't the greatest things to admit even if you're just joking (which I am but just adding this statement makes it sound like I'm not but I totally am (that "totally" doesn't help but I assure you, I'm joking (did the hole just get deeper?))). I mean, sure, her body is super fit because she's a super hero (or will be?). But she has such a baby face! And even at twenty-one, she's just a baby! If I were younger, I'd totally have a crush on her. But I'm 48 and I just don't consider young women proper targets for my sexual deviance anymore. The only interaction I should have with young women these days is warning them against going out to the summer camp at the lake where that boy drowned so many years ago. The girls I had a crush on when I was younger (Christina Applegate (Kelly Bundy), Winona Ryder (Veronica Sawyer), and Stacie Mistysyn (Caitlin Ryan)), I have even more of a crush on now. Judging by the crushes I've had my whole life and not society's stereotype of women, women definitely get better looking as they get older. And probably as I get older. I'm sure that's part of it although I like to think that fifteen year old me would still look at these nearly fifty (or maybe fifty? I'm not so obsessed I know their ages but they're all around my age anyway) year old women and think, "Holy fuck mommy." I'm sorry for that last comment. But I'm only sorry to God not anybody who was reading this. Oh, I forgot to mention that Joel McHale is the original Starman (I mean original in the show although he's Sylvester Pemberton who was never Starman but only Skyman although in the show he was at one point the Star-Spangled Kid and Luke Wilson does mention Ted Knight at some point). And he's funny in his death scene just like he should be because I've obviously decides Sylvester is Jeff Winger's new superhero secret identity alias. Starman heads off with his Cosmic Buttplug to stop Kulak in Gotham City. He doesn't know it yet but the rest of his pals are currently battling Kulak and probably losing. Although Kulak is even older than they are so maybe it's a fair fight. I'm just surprised that a comic book where old men battle other old men has made it ten issues.

I think some editor was fired last issue and the new editor's only job was to make sure it didn't look like Thunderbolt had been speared through the asshole.

Although this editor seemed to think it was okay to have Hawkgirl fucked from behind by Kulak.

I hope this isn't a terrible conservative take on women that exposes how terrible I am at sex but even mind-controlled, I can't imagine licking a woman's shoulder would elicit that response. Although she could be "Ummming" from his pee-hee in her bee-boo.

I know conservative talking points are generally fucking idiotic but Ben Shapiro somehow thinking women can get "too wet" from sexual excitement might be the most hilariously idiotic. I don't think I've been with a woman who was all, "Yes! Yes! Lick my shoulder blade!" and I then I got super into it and then suddenly she was all, "Nope. Too wet. This isn't working for me anymore. I need a doctor, I guess?" Who am I kidding? I know I've never been with a woman who did that because that would mean I've had to have been with a woman! Also, women get wet down there? What's that about? Is it because the vagina cries at the sight of the penis? Kulak takes away all of their super powers but I guess he forgets that Wildcat doesn't have any so I'm hoping Wildcat just punches him in the face soon. Although that Starman bit probably was a hint at how the coming fight might end. You know, with Starman shoving his Cosmic Buttplug into Kulak's third eye, if you know what I'm saying. You probably do because I called it a Cosmic Buttplug. I should try to be more subtle. Kulak's entire purpose is to get revenge on the Justice Society for defeating him way back in 1940. Can't even one super villain just accept defeat and move on with their lives? Or are writers just always going to be so inherently lazy that they'll never give up the crutch of the villain attacking the hero directly out of revenge for that one single time they tried to actually commit a crime and were stopped? The JSA puts up a fight that helps to drain Kulak's power but it isn't until Starman arrives and does that thing I mentioned with his Cosmic Buttplug that Kulak is defeated.

This is the grossest orgasm I've ever seen and my computer is riddled with viruses from all of the previous ones I've watched.

After Kulak's defeat, Jesse Quick wraps up the issue with her super hero dissertation which is less a dissertation and more of a thorough cleaning of all of their asses with her tongue. She's all, "I didn't really do much research or define heroes too good but the Justice Society of America are my heroes so I deserver a degree, right?" Justice Society of America #10 Rating: B. This comic book was as average as they get. I suppose that should garner a C grade but a B grade just seems to say decent but mediocre. By the time I get down to a C grade, I feel like the comic book needs a lot more faults than "I don't really care about stories with heroes who are having strokes during the battles." It's a valid criticism but it's probably too subjective for a critical review. I know, I know! When has that ever stopped me before? Well, I feel charitable today. It probably has something to do with Mars being so close to the full moon earlier this week. My blood is all riled up and wacky!

[whindsor]

So at the start of 2019, I made the resolution to read more books! I used to be a voracious reader as a kid, but between college and grad school I kind of...forgot how to do that? So I got myself a library card (clutch, tbh) and spent the year enjoying free books and audiobooks!

Below the cut are the books that I read with short reviews about them. They aren’t the only books I started, but the cool thing about a library card is that since the books are free, you don’t feel bad about not finishing them if you don’t like them! 

Take a gander, maybe you’ll find your next favorite read!

Brief summary, meaning my favorite books of the year: An Ember in the Ashes by Sabaa Tahir, Outlander by Diana Gabaldon, and An Absolutely Remarkable Thing by Hank Green!

As You Wish: Inconceivable Tales from the Making of the Princess Bride by Cary Elwes 7/10 IDK if I enjoyed this because of nostalgia or because it was the first book I borrowed with my fancy dancy library card but either way it was nice to read a first hand account of one of my favorite movies, written by an actor that obviously feels a lot of affection towards it. Snaps to you, Cary Elwes.

Wonder Woman: Warbringer by Leigh Bardugo 7/10 I read it because it was Wonder Woman! She saves a girl who washes up on the shores of Themyscira and goes on an adventure to save her from ancient magic forces. TBH it wasn’t anything earth shattering but it was a fun, adventurous read and an entertaining story. Minus two points because Leigh Bardugo got paid to write fanfiction and I haven’t achieved that yet.

The Selection by Keira Cass 6/10 It was interesting enough to finish the audiobook, and I continued it because I was curious as to what would happen. It’s almost like a medieval AU of The Bachelor. But then the dreaded love triangle came up and I didn’t like where it was going so I didn’t finish the sequel. Entertaining enough, but not one I would go back to.

Wicked Appetite / Wicked Business / Wicked Charms by Janet Evanovich 6/10 Again, juuuuuuuust interesting enough for me to finish the audiobooks. It was the first audiobooks I got with ye olde librarie carde so that’s probably why I was so attached to finishing them. Also it’s about a girl that has magic baking powers, which is also probably why I wanted to finish it. She has to track down dragon balls or something I can’t really remember but it wasn’t bad.

Outlander / Dragonfly in Amber / Voyager by Diana Gabaldon 8/10 I LOVED Outlander, loved Dragonfly in Amber slightly less, and could barely finish Voyager. The series is about a British WWII nurse who gets sent back in time to 1793 Scotland and has to navigate all that mess. Jamie Fraser and eventually Fergus are the crown jewels of this story. Outlander was fantastic to me, it was interesting and funny and saucy and all in all a good story about time travel and the repercussions. There’s like, five more books in the series but again, I lost interest. I’ll probably go back and see what happens though cause I think Gabaldon brings in new characters.

The Lost Girls of Paris by Pam Jenoff 8/10 A book about women spies in WWII France?? Fighting the Nazis and falling in love and being heroes?? Loved it. The characters were real and the fear palpable. Minus two points cause the love subplot was a touch underdeveloped but who knows man war changes things.

A Conjuring of Light by VE Schwab 9/10 The third in the series starting with A Darker Shade of Magic. I loooooooved the characters in this story, the plot twists were exciting instead of annoying, and the way that she uses magic and secrets and reveals were perfection. And I actually really enjoyed the ending, which is surprising. Would read again.

An Absolutely Remarkable Thing by Hank Green 9/10 A super interesting story about a mysterious sculpture that appears in New York and the subsequent fallout of crazy things that happen. I listened to the audiobook and the narrators were perfect, the story is fast paced and has good twists and the characters are super real and relatable and fallible. TBH I read it cause it’s John Green’s brother (I assume, I didn’t fact check) and he did NOT disappoint. Minus one point just cause I can’t bring myself to give out 10′s a lot.

Cinder by Marissa Meyer 8/10 Honestly? People shit on this book but I really enjoyed it. It’s fun and heart wrenching and an interesting take on the Cinderella story. One of these days I’ll finish Scarlet which is the sequel.

The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger 6/10 Holy shit this was way more intense than I anticipated it being. It was a really good take on time travel and the way it affects people. Truth be told I never saw the movie, but this book was crazy and saucy and super interesting. I didn’t give it a higher rating just cause the time traveler knew his wife since she was six and that doesn’t sit well with me.

Simon Vs. The Homo Sapiens Agenda by Becky Albertalli 7/10 Both the movie and the book were good, with all the drama and heartache of 1) being a teenager and 2) coming out to the people around him. Very poignant and emotional. Didn’t give it a higher rating just cause it wasn’t super memorable to me? But then again, that’s cause I’m a twenty-something woman and not a teenage gay boy so while it was beautifully written and definitely a very important book, it just wasn’t one of my faves.

Lilac Girls by Martha Hall Kelly 7/10 More women in WWII! Now with all this boss historical fiction coming out I can definitely see why guys are so obsessed with WWII. Then again, I think I would be obsessed with any stories detailing how badass women are during the war. It covers stories from all sides of the war - including the Nazis - and makes it seem so much more real. I started reading the sequel but it wasn’t quite as interesting.

The Diviners by Libba Bray 8/10 A fun fantasy mystery set in 1920′s New York! With ghosts and demons and magic powers and flappers! I really enjoyed it and am currently working on the sequel. The jargon is what really gets me like it’s so Great Gatsby but better. Would recommend.

Shatter Me by Tahereh Mafi 7/10 A patient recommended this to me. It’s about a girl imprisoned because she has powers and that is Dangerous. It’s of course a post-apocalyptic military state situation, and she’s trying to escape and low key start an uprising. A really good story with a really interesting voice to the main character. Like, this writing style was SO DIFFERENT and amazing, I’ve never read anything like it. I didn’t continue the series just because the voice was SO good and in tune that it kinda stressed me out.

Time After Time by Lisa Grunwald 6/10 An A+ concept about a ghost in the New York subway and the man who loves her. It’s an interesting take on a lil paranormal romance. I loved the lore and the historical setting (it takes place in like, the 40′s) and really paints a fantastic scene!

Berserker by Emmy Laybourne 8/10 Listen, this book was not something historians will be talking about for years to come. But it’s about a family of siblings who have magic Nordic powers and have to escape Norway and come to the US (which is in prime Old West time) to find their uncle. And they meet a COWBOY. It’s a story about family and love and also occasionally killing people because you have the blood of Odin or some shit and honestly? Catered directly to me.

Truly Devious by Maureen Johnson 8/10 A fun and cool murder mystery set in a special fancy boarding school. Maureen Johnson has been one of my faves for a long time and she did not disappoint with this! It’s about a girl obsessed with a murder at the school, and she transfers in so she can solve it. And the TWIST at the END? Great!

An Ember in the Ashes / A Torch Against the Night / A Reaper at the Gates by Sabaa Tahir 9/10 Another 9 because I can’t bring myself to give a 10, though if anything this series would get it. The voices that Tahir writes with are INCREDIBLE and the story is nuanced and compelling and so good. It’s about a teenager trying to save her brother from prison, as well as a guy graduating from assassin school. I don’t wanna say too much cause I don’t want to spoil if anyone reads it but tbh if you only pick one series PICK THIS ONE. If you like fantasy and stuff of course.

The Huntress by Kate Quinn 8/10 Listen. Mystery solving New York girl, post war. Men hunting former Nazis. Bicon Russian girl who was in the Russian Air force. Do I really need to say more? A phenomenal story that takes place before, during, and after WWII, and the wide variety of stories happening during that time. Great if you love historical fiction!

Sourdough by Robin Sloan 8/10 Just like Berserker this book probably isn’t something they’re gonna teach in English classes. But it’s about a girl who works in robotics on proprioception (!!!) and then?? Starts baking bread??? AKA everything I love in life so, you know, once again a book catering specifically to me.

Magnus Chase and the Sword of Summer by Rick Riorden 7/10 As always, Riorden delivers a phenomenal story with phenomenal characters. And it includes populations that aren’t often the main characters in literature - a homeless teen and a Muslim teen, to name two. I haven’t continued the series just cause I got distracted with other things, but I totally want to.

I’m Not Dying with You Tonight by Kimberly Jones 7/10 A grand adventure that takes place over the course of one night in Atlanta. When a riot breaks out, two girls who haven’t spoken or really know each other are pushed together and spend the rest of the night trying to survive and make it home. It demonstrates two sides of life, and how they’re the same and how they’re different. I listened to the audiobook, which had phenomenal readers.

The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzi Lee 8/10 A story about a spoiled rich bi boy who’s going on one final tour of Europe before he has to settle down and run his family’s estate. His best friend and his sister are with him, and of course everything goes to hell in a handbasket. But it’s a crazy journey and an excellent coming of age story.

In The Woods / The Likeness by Tana French 8/10 AMAZING murder mysteries! The first is about the murder of a kid in Ireland, and the toll it takes on the investigators and people around them. It has an amazing twist at the end, and even though it takes a while for them to solve the murder, it never gets boring. Same with the second one! It’s a crazy situation that would never happen in real life, but she writes it SO WELL that i don’t even care! I will probably skip the third one cause it’s about a character I don’t really like and also takes place in the past before all of this, but I do want to continue reading these!

Stay Sexy and Don’t Get Murdered by Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark 8/10 A great book of essays written by the voices behind “My Favorite Murder,” which is a hilarious and semi-informative true crime podcast. But they talk about more than just true crime in the book - in fact, it’s more about things that they’ve learned throughout their crazy lives. Super eye opening and also really entertaining, and I actually listened to it before I even listened to the podcast, so I feel like that’s saying something!

[were-cheetah-stiles]

The College Years - Sophomore Year (Chapter 31) - Stiles Stilinski

Author: @were-cheetah-stiles​

Title: “The Missing Boy”

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey, Cora Hale, Scott McCall, Deputy Clarke, Noah Stilinski, Melissa McCall & Reader/OFC

Summary: Stiles gets released from the hospital, following his attack, and gets increasingly less patient with his ability to help the Pack crack the case of who summoned the rabisu to Beacon Hills.

Chapter Thirty - Chapter Thirty-One - Chapter Thirty-Two

After nine days, Stiles had been released from the hospital and was finally allowed to go home. Sheriff Stilinski and Melissa McCall had decided that Stiles would be safer sleeping on the McCall's pull-out couch in Melissa's living room, then going home to a normally empty house with Noah. Sheriff Stilinski had figured that Melissa, Scott, Isaac, and Y/n, all staying at the McCall's with his son would be a better option than Noah occasionally being home to look after Stiles. It was temporary, and once Stiles could get up a flight of stairs by himself, Noah would take him home to his own bed. Stiles hated having to rely on others but he loved being in the center of the action again with most of the Pack coming in and out the McCall house at certain points throughout the day.

Cora and Isaac were on ‘Stiles duty’ the first day he came home since Scott had to go out to lunch with his Dad and Y/n was at her internship at the Mayor's office. They sat around the McCall’s living room watching Stiles sift through a box of stuff, that his Dad had brought over from the evidence locker, which was full of items seized from Sam Wirth's house. Cora was upstairs looking through Isaac's clothes, trying to find a shirt to replace her own after Stiles had accidentally spilled grape gatorade down the back of her shirt as she helped him adjust on the couch.

"So when did the Doctor say you could have sex again?" Isaac asked, garnering Stiles' attention from the box next to him.

"Not until I'm off bedrest.. so like another three weeks?" Stiles tossed a few pictures back into the box and stared blankly at Isaac. Isaac still infuriated Stiles' sometimes but he had grown quite close to him in the past year since he returned from France and began at Berkeley with the rest of them. Besides Scott, Isaac was the werewolf in the group that Stiles trusted the most.

"Sucks." Isaac retorted, telling Stiles what he already knew. "How's Y/n taking it?"

"She's fine. I don't even think she's thinking about it. She has definitely been treating me with kid gloves lately. I think the whole attack really flipped her out." Stiles admitted.

"Have you told her that you think that she's treating you like a fragile little boy?" Isaac said with a smirk.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Isaac and shook his head. "No... I don't know. I guess now that I'm out of the hospital, I'll say something."

"You should. She probably doesn't even know she's doing it." Cora interjected, startling Stiles and causing him to throw his hand up in the air.

"HOW LONG WERE YOU LISTENING?!" Stiles shouted.

"Pretty much the whole time. You know I bet that she could still give you a blow-" Cora got cut off.

"OKAY. Alright, can we get off the topic of Y/n and I and move back to what's in the box?" Stiles rubbed his pointer finger into his eye in frustration.

"Have you found anything?" Isaac asked, pulling at the shirt that Cora decided to throw on of his. Cora swatted his hand away and sat back in the chair beside him.

"This box is crap. I know that there has to be so much more in evidence lock up at the station and I can't sit here and wait for my Dad to bring me a new box of more crap every day." Stiles said, trying to mask the undertone of irritation.

"What are you even looking for anyway?" Cora asked.

"Malia said that this guy wrote her like a dozen hand written letters and notes, so obviously he isn't going to keep a whole hell of a lot on his computer. I think he probably kept a journal or... actually, even his History of Mesopotamia notebook would be great. If I could compare what Y/n’s notes look like versus what his look like, or if he wrote anything extra. I don't know. I need something... none of which is in this box." Stiles tried to hide the look on his face that showed that the wheels had started rolling in his head.

"Okay, well I can stop by the station later and see if I can get another box of stuff from your Dad and bring it back over." Isaac offered.

"Nah.. no man, it's okay, he'll bring another tomorrow morning anyway." Stiles faked a yawn and stretched his arms above him. "You know, listen guys, I'm actually really tired all the sudden. It just hits me nowadays, you know? I think I'm gonna take a nap, you guys can just take off. Get lunch, enjoy a nice summer day, whatever. Y/n will be over at four to make me dinner so...." Stiles sank into the couch cushions and faked a yawn again.

"Alright, I'll see you later." Isaac said as he got up. Cora waved goodbye and followed Isaac out the door.

"Can we go back to my place so I can change into my own clothes first?" Cora asked as she closed the front door behind her.

Stiles heard the engine turn over on Cora's car outside and he peeked through the blinds. He watched as they drove away and he ripped the blanket that was covering him off and onto the floor. He grabbed his small notepad off the coffee table, next to the evidence box, and scribbled a note onto it. "Y/n, went to the evidence locker at the station. meet me there." He took his one crutch off of the arm of the couch and walked over to his backpack. He pulled his keys out of the front pocket and shoved them into the pocket of his gray sweatpants. Stiles threw his phone and notebook and Gatorade into his backpack, locked the door, and got into his Jeep.

When he pulled up to the Sheriff's station, he checked to see if his Dad's patrol car was gone. It was. Stiles pulled one of his many cloned keycards for the service entrance, and slipped into the station unseen. He punched in the code for the evidence lock up and got to work, throwing his backpack on the floor and resting his crutch against a shelf.

"Shit.. that was maybe a little too heavy..." He grunted to himself as he pulled another box labeled "S. WIRTHS" from a shelf. "Ugh... and I get no service in here. Cool." Stiles continued talking to himself as he sat on the floor surrounded by the boxes of evidence.

You pulled your white Toyota C-HR into Scott's driveway and realized that you had pulled in where Stiles' Jeep should've been. You walked up to the house and used your key to get into the front door.

"Stiles? Stiles, your Jeep isn't out front... Did your Dad come by or Isaac take it or something?" Your shouts were met with silence. "Stiles?" Your heart rate suddenly began to rise.

You noticed that his crutches and backpack were missing as you tore through every room in the house looking for him. "Fuck." You got back into your car and dialed Isaac's number. "Isaac, are you with Stiles?....... He's not taking a nap and his Jeep is gone...... What do you mean you and Cora left him, aren't you two supposed to be able to tell when he's lying? I have to call Scott. Okay, bye."

You pulled out of the driveway and began driving to Stiles' house, hoping that his Jeep would be in the driveway. You called Stiles' number first, only to get his voicemail, then you called Scott. "Hey, Stiles wasn't at your house and Isaac doesn't know where he is. His Jeep is missing and I am officially freaking out. Is he with you?...... Okay, I'm headed over to his house right now to see if he's there instead. Call me if you hear from him..... yea, he's my next call if his Jeep isn't there.... Yea, bye." You pulled up to Stiles' house and didn't see the Jeep.

You threw your car in park and began typing voraciously into the Pack group message. "Has anyone heard from Stiles today? He's not at Scott's or his house, his Jeep, backpack, and crutches are gone, and he's not answering his phone." You waited for the responses. All "no"'s came rolling in. "Shit." You said quietly to yourself, as you closed the texts and opened your phone app. 

You pressed Sheriff Stilinski's number and waited for him to pick up. "Hey Sheriff, have you heard from Stiles today?....... Okay, I think he's missing." You explained all that was wrong again and Sheriff Stilinski told you to go to into his house and wait to see if he'd show up.

Hours passed by and Scott knocked on the door to Stiles' house. It was nearing dark and everyone was out looking for the young Stilinski. He opened the door and saw you pacing the floor and staring at Stiles' murder board.

"Hey, you okay?" Scott asked you, pausing in the doorway to the living room.

"Yea, I just.. I'm really worried. Have any of you caught his scent?" You asked the Alpha.

"Isaac, Cora, Malia, Liam, Hayden, Derek and Ethan are all out looking for him. One of us will find him. I thought you could use a friend though." Scott explained as he stood in front of the murder board with you.

"What's that box?" You nodded your head towards the box that Scott had left in the doorway.

"Oh, Isaac said it was an evidence box that the Sheriff brought for Stiles to sift through. It's all Sam's stuff, but there isn't much in here that's helpful." Scott said, as he grabbed the box and set it on the coffee table in front of him and you instead.

"You're right... there's really nothing in here that's useful.." You echoed Scott's sentiments.

"Holy shit... I think I know where Stiles is." Scott had a eureka moment, grabbed your arm and the evidence box and you both flew out the door.

You pulled your car around the back service alley behind the Sheriff's station and saw Stiles' Jeep parked. You rushed around the front entrance and burst through the check-in lobby. Deputy Clarke ran after you as you headed to the evidence locker. The station was empty since everyone was out looking for Stiles.

"Open it, hurry!" Scott urged Deputy Clarke as she fumbled with the buttons on the keypad.

Scott opened the door and you ran through. You immediately saw Stiles' crutch propped up against a shelf and when you turned a corner you saw him, surrounded by papers and boxes and items from Sam's house. Stiles looked up and smiled. He was holding his good hand against his side and made no effort to get up.

"Hey guys." Stiles said nonchalantly.

"I'm gonna kill you, Stiles." Scott announced as he saw his best friend on the floor. "He's here, Clarke, call his Dad and tell him we found him."

"Stiles, what the fuck. We've all been driving around, frantic, because you were missing. Why didn't you text anyone and tell them you were coming here?" You asked as you dropped to your knees to sit next to Stiles.

"If I texted you that I was coming here, someone would've stopped me, by leaving you a note on the coffee table, I had a few hours to sift through Sam's stuff, and I found the jackpot, you guys." Stiles explained.

"What note?" You questioned him, annoyed.

"I left you a note on the coffee table telling you to meet me here after you got out of the Mayor's office." Stiles' comment was met with bewildered, silent looks. He reached for his backpack and grabbed his notepad. "Oh... I never tore it out and left it. I'm so sorry, babe.... I didn't mean to scare you guys."

"Your Dad is going to flip out on you." Scott reminded Stiles, as he pushed a box over with his foot, making room for him to sit on the floor with his friends. "No one bothered to look here because Clarke is the only one here. Everyone else is out looking for you."

"Well, that's really just poor police work on their part. I feel like you all should've known if I wasn't at your place, or your place, or my place, I'd be here." Stiles made a valid point.

Scott nodded slightly, and moved on, glancing into the boxes around him. "You said you found something?" Scott asked.

"No, hold on, why are you holding your side? What'd you do?" You pulled Stiles' hand from under his hoodie and revealed that blood had soaked through his t-shirt. "Oh my god, Stiles! What happened?"

"I think I may have popped a stitch when I was pulling boxes down but I'm fine." Stiles explained.

"You're not fine, man. You're really bleeding. Come on.." Scott helped Stiles to his feet. "Let's get to the hospital and have my mom check you out."

"Fine, but Y/N, put those two books and those papers in my backpack and bring them with us." Stiles insisted, holding onto a brace on a shelf, refusing to leave until you obliged.

Scott and you and Melissa sat in the small seating area outside of Stiles' room, listening to the Sheriff berate his son over the scare he gave everyone and the wasted resources that he used just to be found at the station, looking at confidential information.

"So what is all of that?" Scott asked, trying to ignore the scene that the Sheriff was making in the exam room.

"Stiles really did find something..." You flipped through the stapled papers, scanning the document quickly. "So we wrote three papers for our Ancient Mesopotamia class, and the final essay was a ten page research paper on the topic of our choosing. He gave us like a month and a half to work on them so that we could get a good amount of research done before submitting them."

"So is that his final paper?" Scott asked, leaning over your shoulder to look at the title on the first page.

"Yea, it is, and he basically wrote it on the rabisu." You answered, not realizing that the yelling had ceased.

"Not only that, but I read through his notebook and his journal and it's basically a timeline of Sam learning about Malia and the Pack, getting spurned by her.. repeatedly.. working on his paper and doing all the research from old books from the university library, figuring out how to summon them,stopping work in his other classes, getting put on academic probation, moving out of his apartment, getting rejected and told off by Malia one last time, and deciding to get his revenge on the supernatural community of Beacon Hills, and of course, Malia." Stiles came out on his crutches and interrupted Scott and Y/N’s conversation. "This kid was insane. He knew that the rabisu could turn on him and he didn't care. He thought that he could summon them and control them solely because he did a lot of research on them. He was trying to kill all of us because we wouldn't let him into the Pack. He basically got exactly what he deserved."

"He belonged in Eichen House, not in the morgue." Scott reminded Stiles of the Pack's code of ethics.

Stiles rolled his eyes. "You don't even know, Scott. He followed you around for weeks. He wrote in his journal that he figured out that vampires were the ones attacking people in Berkeley, so he followed one, hoping it would turn him so that he could become a part of that Pack!" Stiles was speaking a little too loudly to be out in public, talking about the supernatural.

"ENOUGH! Enough! I'm done with this crap for tonight." Sheriff Stilinski was exhausted and frustrated with his son. "Y/n, can you drive Stiles and Scott back to the McCall's please? Stiles' Jeep will be in impound until he gets the okay to drive again from the doctors AND me." You nodded and put all of Sam's stuff back in Stiles' backpack, and the three of them walked out to your car.

30 <- -> 32

Smut to come in the next chapter... like, damn good smut. 

@alexhmak @dontstopxx @iloveteenwolf24 @chivesoup @vampirepinary @parislight @surpeme-bean @snek-shit @mayahart02 @fuxkdean @teenage-dirtbagbaby @sorrynotsorrylovesome @dylrider @iknowisoundcrazy @l4life @ivette29 @5secsxofamnesia @lovelydob @vogue-sweetie @awkwarddly @therealmrshale @twentyone-souls @xmadwonderland @mrs-mitch-rapp93 @inkedaztec @sunshineystilinski @eccentricxem @lightbreaksthrough @ninja-stiles @maddie110201 @hattyohatt @stilinski-stydia-obrien @amethystmerm4id @completebandgeek @rhyxn @teamwolf2411 @acc3ssdenied @girlwiththerubyslippers @theneverendingracetrack @the-vampire-diaries-all-the-way @im-very-odd33 @vmach29 @sokkasbae255 @hirafth @caitsymichelle13 @dailyburritos @lolaversuslipstick @mieczzyslaw @atlas-of-the-world @anonimereader06 @bunnyboo10154 @itsamberh @hypothetical-cynicism @sp00der-m00n @molesandmischief

[amyamili]

Art Historical Image - Week Ten 

Dada Manifesto by Tristan Tzara 23rd March 1918

The magic of a word – Dada – which has brought journalists to the gates of a world unforeseen, is of no importance to us.

To put out a manifesto you must want: ABC to fulminate against 1, 2, 3 to fly into a rage and sharpen your wings to conquer and disseminate little abcs and big ABCs, to sign, shout, swear, to organize prose into a form of absolute and irrefutable evidence, to prove your non plus ultra and maintain that novelty resembles life just as the latest-appearance of some whore proves the essence of God. His existence was previously proved by the accordion, the landscape, the wheedling word. To impose your ABC is a natural thing - hence deplorable. Everybody does it in the form of crystalbluff-madonna, monetary system, pharmaceutical product, or a bare leg advertising the ardent sterile spring. The love of novelty is the cross of sympathy, demonstrates a naive je m'enfoutisme, it is a transitory, positive sign without a cause.

But this need itself is obsolete. In documenting art on the basis of the supreme simplicity: novelty, we are human and true for the sake of amusement, impulsive, vibrant to crucify boredom. At the crossroads of the lights, alert, attentively awaiting the years, in the forest. I write a manifesto and I want nothing, yet I say certain things, and in principle I am against manifestos, as I am also against principles (half-pints to measure the moral value of every phrase too too convenient; approximation was invented by the impressionists). I write this manifesto to show that people can perform contrary actions together while taking one fresh gulp of air; I am against action; for continuous contradiction, for affirmation too, I am neither for nor against and I do not explain because I hate common sense.

DADA - this is a word that throws up ideas so that they can be shot down; every bourgeois is a little playwright, who invents different subjects and who, instead of situating suitable characters on the level of his own intelligence, like chrysalises on chairs, tries to find causes or objects (according to whichever psychoanalytic method he practices) to give weight to his plot, a talking and self-defining story.

Every spectator is a plotter, if he tries to explain a word (to know!) From his padded refuge of serpentine complications, he allows his instincts to be manipulated. Whence the sorrows of conjugal life.

To be plain: The amusement of redbellies in the mills of empty skulls.

DADA DOES NOT MEAN ANYTHING

If you find it futile and don't want to waste your time on a word that means nothing ... The first thought that comes to these people is bacteriological in character: to find its etymological, or at least its historical or psychological origin. We see by the papers that the Kru Negroes call the tail of a holy cow Dada. The cube and the mother in a certain district of Italy are called: Dada. A hobby horse, a nurse both in Russian and Rumanian: Dada. Some learned journalists regard it as an art for babies, other holy-Jesus-calling-the-little-children-unto-hims of our day, as a relapse into a dry and noisy, noisy and monotonous primitivism. Sensibility is not constructed on the basis of a word; all constructions converge on perfection which is boring, the stagnant idea of a gilded swamp, a relative human product. A work of art should not be beauty in itself, for beauty is dead; it should be neither gay nor sad, neither light nor dark to rejoice or torture the individual by serving him the cakes of sacred aureoles or the sweets of a vaulted race through the atmospheres. A work of art is never beautiful by decree, objectively and for all. Hence criticism is useless, it exists only subjectively, for each man separately, without the slightest character of universality. Does anyone think he has found a psychic base common to all mankind? The attempt of Jesus and the Bible covers with their broad benevolent wings: shit, animals, days. How can one expect to put order into the chaos that constitutes that infinite and shapeless variation: man? The principle: "love thy neighbor" is a hypocrisy. "Know thyself" is utopian but more acceptable, for it embraces wickedness. No pity. After the carnage we still retain the hope of a purified mankind. I speak only of myself since I do not wish to convince, I have no right to drag others into my river, I oblige no one to follow me and everybody practices his art in his own way, if be knows the joy that rises like arrows to the astral layers, or that other joy that goes down into the mines of corpse-flowers and fertile spasms. Stalactites: seek them everywhere, in managers magnified by pain, eyes white as the hares of the angels.

And so Dada was born* of a need for independence, of a distrust toward unity. Those who are with us preserve their freedom. We recognize no theory. We have enough cubist and futurist academies: laboratories of formal ideas. Is the aim of art to make money and cajole the nice nice bourgeois? Rhymes ring with the assonance of the currencies and the inflexion slips along the line of the belly in profile. All groups of artists have arrived at this trust company utter riding their steeds on various comets. While the door remains open to the possibility of wallowing in cushions and good things to eat.

Here we are dropping our anchor in fertile ground.

Here we really know what we are talking about, because we have experienced the trembling and the awakening. Drunk with energy, we are revenants thrusting the trident into heedless flesh. We are streams of curses in the tropical abundance of vertiginous vegetation, resin and rain is our sweat, we bleed and burn with thirst, our blood is strength.

Cubism was born out of the simple way of looking at an object: Cezanne painted a cup 20 centimetres below his eyes, the cubists look at it from above, others complicate appearance by making a perpendicular section and arranging it conscientiously on the side. (I do not forget the creative artists and the profound laws of matter which they established once and for all.) The futurist sees the same cup in movement, a succession of objects one beside the others and maliciously adds a few force lines. This does not prevent the canvas from being a good or bad painting suitable for the investment of intellectual capital.

The new painter creates a world, the elements of which are also its implements, a sober, definite work without argument. The new artist protests: he no longer paints (symbolic and illusionist reproduction) but creates directly in stone, wood, iron, tin, boulders—locomotive organisms capable of being turned in all directions by the limpid wind of momentary sensation. All pictorial or plastic work is useless: let it then be a monstrosity that frightens servile minds, and not sweetening to decorate the refectories of animals in human costume, illustrating the sad fable of mankind.

A painting is the art of making two lines, which have been geometrically observed to be parallel, meet on a canvas, before our eyes, in the reality of a world that has been transposed according to new conditions and possibilities. This world is neither specified nor defined in the work, it belongs, in its innumerable variations, to the spectator. For its creator it has neither case nor theory. Order = disorder; ego = non-ego; affirmation - negation: the supreme radiations of an absolute art. Absolute in the purity of its cosmic and regulated chaos, eternal in that globule that is a second which has no duration, no breath, no light and no control. I appreciate an old work for its novelty. It is only contrast that links us to the past. Writers who like to moralise and discuss or ameliorate psychological bases have, apart from a secret wish to win, a ridiculous knowledge of life, which they may have classified, parcelled out, canalised; they are determined to see its categories dance when they beat time. Their readers laugh derisively, but carry on: what's the use?

There is one kind of literature which never reaches the voracious masses. The work of creative writers, written out of the author's real necessity, and for his own benefit. The awareness of a supreme egoism, wherein laws become significant. Every page should explode, either because of its profound gravity, or its vortex, vertigo, newness, eternity, or because of its staggering absurdity, the enthusiasm of its principles, or its typography. On the one hand there is a world tottering in its flight, linked to the resounding tinkle of the infernal gamut; on the other hand, there are: the new men. Uncouth, galloping, riding astride on hiccups. And there is a mutilated world and literary medicasters in desperate need of amelioration.

I assure you: there is no beginning, and we are not afraid; we aren't sentimental. We are like a raging wind that rips up the clothes of clouds and prayers, we are preparing the great spectacle of disaster, conflagration and decomposition. Preparing to put an end to mourning, and to replace tears by sirens spreading from one continent to another. Clarions of intense joy, bereft of that poisonous sadness. DADA is the mark of abstraction; publicity and business are also poetic elements.

I destroy the drawers of the brain, and those of social organisation: to sow demoralisation everywhere, and throw heaven's hand into hell, hell's eyes into heaven, to reinstate the fertile wheel of a universal circus in the Powers of reality, and the fantasy of every individual.

Philosophy is the question: from which side shall we look at life, God, the idea or other phenomena. Everything one looks at is false. I do not consider the relative result more important than the choice between cake and cherries after dinner. The system of quickly looking at the other side of a thing in order to impose your opinion indirectly is called dialectics, in other words, haggling over the spirit of fried potatoes while dancing method around it.

If I shout:

Ideal, Ideal, Ideal

Knowledge, Knowledge, Knowledge

Boomboom, Boomboom, Boomboom

I have given a pretty faithful version of progress, law, morality and all other fine qualities that various highly intelligent men have discussed in so many books, only to conclude that after all everyone dances to his own personal boomboom, and that the writer is entitled to his boomboom: the satisfaction of pathological curiosity a private bell for inexplicable needs; a bath; pecuniary difficulties; a stomach with repercussions in tile; the authority of the mystic wand formulated as the bouquet of a phantom orchestra made up of silent fiddle bows greased with filters made of chicken manure. With the blue eye-glasses of an angel they have excavated the inner life for a dime's worth of unanimous gratitude. If all of them are right and if all pills are Pink Pills, let us try for once not to be right. Some people think they can explain rationally, by thought, what they think. But that is extremely relative. Psychoanalysis is a dangerous disease, it puts to sleep the anti-objective impulses of man and systematizes the bourgeoisie. There is no ultimate Truth. The dialectic is an amusing mechanism which guides us / in a banal kind of way / to the opinions we had in the first place. Does anyone think that, by a minute refinement of logic, he had demonstrated the truth and established the correctness of these opinions? Logic imprisoned by the senses is an organic disease. To this element philosophers always like to add: the power of observation. But actually this magnificent quality of the mind is the proof of its impotence. We observe, we regard from one or more points of view, we choose them among the millions that exist. Experience is also a product of chance and individual faculties. Science disgusts me as soon as it becomes a speculative system, loses its character of utility that is so useless but is at least individual. I detest greasy objectivity, and harmony, the science that finds everything in order. Carry on, my children, humanity... Science says we are the servants of nature: everything is in order, make love and bash your brains in. Carry on, my children, humanity, kind bourgeois and journalist virgins... I am against systems, the most acceptable system is on principle to have none. To complete oneself, to perfect oneself in one's own littleness, to fill the vessel with one's individuality, to have the courage to fight for and against thought, the mystery of bread, the sudden burst of an infernal propeller into economic lilies.

DADAIST SPONTANEITY

What I call the I-don't-give-a-damn attitude of life is when everyone minds his own business, at the same time as he knows how to respect other individualities, and even how to stand up for himself, the two-step becoming a national anthem, a junk shop, the wireless (the wire-less telephone) transmitting Bach fugues, illuminated advertisements for placards for brothels, the organ broadcasting carnations for God, all this at the same time, and in real terms, replacing photography and unilateral catechism.

Active simplicity.

Inability to distinguish between degrees of clarity: to lick the penumbra and float in the big mouth filled with honey and excrement. Measured by the scale of eternity, all activity is vain - (if we allow thought to engage in an adventure the result of which would be infinitely grotesque and add significantly to our knowledge of human impotence). But supposing life to be a poor farce, without aim or initial parturition, and because we think it our duty to extricate ourselves as fresh and clean as washed chrysanthemums, we have proclaimed as the sole basis for agreement: art. It is not as important as we, mercenaries of the spirit, have been proclaiming for centuries. Art afflicts no one and those who manage to take an interest in it will harvest caresses and a fine opportunity to populate the country with their conversation. Art is a private affair, the artist produces it for himself, an intelligible work is the product of a journalist, and because at this moment it strikes my fancy to combine this monstrosity with oil paints: a paper tube simulating the metal that is automatically pressed and poured hatred cowardice villainy. The artist, the poet rejoice at the venom of the masses condensed into a section chief of this industry, he is happy to be insulted: it is a proof of his immutability. When a writer or artist is praised by the newspapers, it is a proof of the intelligibility of his work: wretched lining of a coat for public use; tatters covering brutality, piss contributing to the warmth of an animal brooding vile instincts. Flabby, insipid flesh reproducing with the help of typographical microbes.

We have thrown out the cry-baby in us. Any infiltration of this kind is candied diarrhoea. To encourage this act is to digest it. What we need is works that are strong straight precise and forever beyond understanding. Logic is a complication. Logic is always wrong. It draws the threads of notions, words, in their formal exterior, toward illusory ends and centres. Its chains kill, it is an enormous centipede stifling independence. Married to logic, art would live in incest, swallowing, engulfing its own tail, still part of its own body, fornicating within itself, and passion would become a nightmare tarred with protestantism, a monument, a heap of ponderous grey entrails. But the suppleness, enthusiasm, even the joy of injustice, this little truth which we practice innocently and which makes its beautiful: we are subtle and our fingers are malleable and slippery as the branches of that sinuous, almost liquid plant; it defines our soul, say the cynics. That too is a point of view; but all flowers are not sacred, fortunately, and the divine thing in us is to call to anti-human action. I am speaking of a paper flower for the buttonholes of the gentlemen who frequent the ball of masked life, the kitchen of grace, white cousins lithe or fat. They traffic with whatever we have selected. The contradiction and unity of poles in a single toss can be the truth. If one absolutely insists on uttering this platitude, the appendix of a libidinous, malodorous morality. Morality creates atrophy like every plague produced by intelligence. The control of morality and logic has inflicted us with impassivity in the presence of policemen who are the cause of slavery, putrid rats infecting the bowels of the bourgeoisie which have infected the only luminous clean corridors of glass that remained open to artists..

But suppleness, enthusiasm and even the joy of injustice, that little truth that we practise as innocents and that makes us beautiful: we are cunning, and our fingers are malleable and glide like the branches of that insidious and almost liquid plant; this injustice is the indication of our soul, say the cynics. This is also a point of view; but all flowers aren't saints, luckily, and what is divine in us is the awakening of anti-human action. What we are talking about here is a paper flower for the buttonhole of gentlemen who frequent the ball of masked life, the kitchen of grace, our white, lithe or fleshy girl cousins. They make a profit out of what we have selected. The contradiction and unity of opposing poles at the same time may be true. IF we are absolutely determined to utter this platitude, the appendix of alibidinous, evil-smelling morality. Morals have an atrophying effect, like every other pestilential product of the intelligence. Being governed by morals and logic has made it impossible for us to be anything other than impassive towards policemen - the cause of slavery - putrid rats with whom the bourgeois are fed up to the teeth, and who have infected the only corridors of clear and clean glass that remained open to artists.

Let each man proclaim: there is a great negative work of destruction to be accomplished. We must sweep and clean. Affirm the cleanliness of the individual after the state of madness, aggressive complete madness of a world abandoned to the hands of bandits, who rend one another and destroy the centuries. Without aim or design, without organization: indomitable madness, decomposition. Those who are strong in words or force will survive, for they are quick in defence, the agility of limbs and sentiments flames on their faceted flanks.

Morality has determined charity and pity, two balls of fat that have grown like elephants, like planets, and are called good. There is nothing good about them. Goodness is lucid, clear and decided, pitiless toward compromise and politics. Morality is an injection of chocolate into the veins of all men. This task is not ordered by a supernatural force but by the trust of idea brokers and grasping academicians. Sentimentality: at the sight of a group of men quarrelling and bored, they invented the calendar and the medicament wisdom. With a sticking of labels the battle of the philosophers was set off (mercantilism, scales, meticulous and petty measures) and for the second time it was understood that pity is a sentiment like diarrhoea in relation to the disgust that destroys health, a foul attempt by carrion corpses to compromise the sun. I proclaim the opposition of all cosmic faculties to this gonorrhoea of a putrid sun issued from the factories of philosophical thought, I proclaim bitter struggle with all the weapons of –

DADAIST DISGUST

Every product of disgust capable of becoming a negation of the family is Dada; a protest with the fists of its whole being engaged in destructive action: Dada; knowledge of all the means rejected up until now by the shamefaced sex of comfortable compromise and good manners: DADA; abolition of logic, which is the dance of those impotent to create: DADA; of every social hierarchy and equation set up for the sake of values by our valets: DADA: every object, all objects, sentiments, obscurities, apparitions and the precise clash of parallel lines are weapons for the fight: DADA; abolition of memory: Dada; abolition of archaeology: DADA; abolition of prophets: DADA; abolition of the future: DADA; absolute and unquestionable faith in every god that is the immediate product of spontaneity: DADA; elegant and unprejudiced leap from a harmony to the other sphere; trajectory of a word tossed like a screeching phonograph record; to respect all individuals in their folly of the moment: whether it be serious, fearful, timid, ardent, vigorous, determined, enthusiastic; to divest one's church of eve ry useless cumbersome accessory; to spit out disagreeable or amorous ideas like a luminous waterfall, or coddle them—with the extreme satisfaction that it doesn't matter in the least - with the same intensity in the thicket of core's soul pure of insects for blood well-born, and gilded with bodies of archangels. Freedom: DADA DADA DADA, a roaring of tense colors, and interlacing of opposites and of all contradictions, grotesques, inconsistencies:

LIFE.

* in 1916 at the CABARET VOLTAIRE in Zurich