#THE PERSONAL LIBRARIAN

[haveyoureadthisbook-poll]

[thetypedwriter]

The Personal Librarian Book Review

The Personal Librarian Book Review By Marie Benedict and Victoria Christopher Murray 

It happened again. The Personal Librarian is never a book I would have picked up or chosen for myself as far as historical fiction goes. 

Now, I like historical fiction. Anything about ancient Rome or Greece I will absolutely devour. Early 1900’s New York isn’t exactly my cup of tea on the other hand. Through extraneous motivations, I found a copy of this novel in my hand and a requirement to read it. 

Honestly, for a Good Morning America Book Club pick, I expected more. 

The story follows Belle da Costa Greene, born Belle Marion Greener, the second eldest daughter of the first Black graduate of Harvard and a civil rights advocate in 20th century America. 

The story follows Belle as she becomes the personal librarian to the enigmatic, larger than life J.P Morgan, and aids him in his desire to accrue and create a rare book, manuscript, and artwork collection for the Pierpont Morgan Library. 

Of course, this wouldn’t be possible if they knew she was Black. It’s only possible because Belle is living in this racially unfair and hostile world as a white-passing woman with no ties to her father and a made-up story of having ancestry to a Portuguese grandmother in order to explain her slightly darker skin. 

The story begins in the year 1905 and spans all the way until 1924, with the addition of the epilogue that takes place in March of 1948. 

A politically fraught era, Belle lived in a cruel world where the true nature of her identity would never have allowed her to live and achieve the aspirations she was capable of due to bigotry and racism. 

For a book with such an inspiring and capable main character and an incredibly charged environment, you would think The Personal Librarian would be relentlessly engaging, deeply meaningful, and a riveting experience to consume. 

Unfortunately, I found it quite boring. 

From start to finish, the book was droll despite the co-authors attempting to make it entertaining and educational. Belle as a main character was as flat as a board. 

You might find this hard to believe, but I found it to be the case in my reading experience. Other than being a workaholic, shallowly debating the issue of her identity, being in love with rare manuscripts, and seeking a connection, there wasn’t much to her. 

Supposedly Belle’s family was inherently important to her and the catalyst for most of her choices, but we rarely see them and none of them were standalone characters in their own right except for Mama, who came across as harsh most of the time and not very likable. 

Belle’s other driving factors included her attraction and romance with J.P. Morgan himself and another art collector named Bernard Berenson. While Belle found herself attracted to Mr. Morgan throughout her tenure as his personal librarian, nothing of huge consequences happened between them. 

However, the same could not be said for Mr. Berenson, whom Belle gave to herself completely and was destroyed in the end by his non-committal actions, selfishness, and betrayal. 

You would think the romances would be spicy, but they were anything but. Belle seemed to always find herself drawn to white,  powerful men more than three times her age (and I abhor drastic disparities in age and power dynamics) and the romance itself was cheesy and predictable. I knew the moment I read about Bernard that their romance would end in a cataclysmic disaster. I was right. 

A lot of other names are tossed around, but truly, none of them were characterized very well or fleshed out in any important way. I think the authors wanted to include as many historical names and titles as possible, but it meant little to me without a history lesson. Instead it came across as wasted potential and more like name dropping for the sake of it. 

You would imagine that the driving force of the book would be Belle’s identity crisis between her being a Black woman pretending to be a white woman. And while this issue comes up over and over and over again, it is always the same thing every single time. 

Belle fears that she will be discovered. She’s saddened that this is the world she must live in. She essentially forgets about it for the rest of the chapter and lives out as Belle de Costa Greene. Rinse and repeat. Every. Single. Chapter. 

No growth comes forth from this whatsoever. The tension of this secret builds and builds and builds and you expect, as a reader, some kind of eventual reckoning. None ever comes. 

All we get as a reader is Belle reuniting with her father for a single chapter, a man who left her as a child to pursue civil rights, and who essentially tells her that she has the choice to remain white and that it is not a betrayal. It is not a fair choice and that he hopes, one day, that her true background can be revealed without fear of discrimination and hatred. 

I understand that this book is the eventual reckoning. The world now knows that Belle de Costa Greene was actually born Belle Marion Greener, a Black woman, and rewards and cheers her amazing accomplishments. However, in the actual story, we never get this reckoning and it deflates the tension and stakes of the experience overall.

Belle de Costa Greene was a real woman that handled a divided world in the best way she could. The authors took some liberties that make this historical fiction, but as a whole, this story didn’t make for a great book to read. Belle de Costa Greene is amazing, and she should be seen as such, but I think this would have been better as a biography. 

This tale didn’t lend itself well to a full blown nearly 400-paged novel. The book was more of a history lesson on an Italian renaissance painter or a social issue in 1915 than it was a character driven novel on identity, race, and choice. 

Because of this, I found it interesting, but a disappointment story-wise. If it was advertised as a historical account of the life of Belle de Costa Greene with an emphasis on art, history, and politics, that would be one thing. 

But the authors try to squeeze in things like romance, family, friendship, and characterization—all of which falls flat because the history and art dominates everything else in the story so completely. 

As a biography, this book makes sense. If you cut out the liberties both authors take in order to make this a compelling read, the novel essentially follows the formula of a biography anyway. 

However, they thought it would make a great narrative and it just…doesn’t. The story is about an intelligent, competent, successful woman that everyone believed to be white until now. 

But the story itself doesn’t have any particular climaxes that makes this an appealing read. It lacks stakes, tension, real conflict, characterization, and personal development. 

For someone like me, a very character-driven reader, this book was hard to swallow due to its very nature of and the history, culture, art, and politics of the time weren’t enough to keep me engaged until the very end. 

Recommendation: Unless you're a history major that will fangirl over every name mentioned in this book, put it down and just pick up a biography on Belle de Costa Greene instead. It will give you the same delivery without any of the useless fluff. 

Score: 5/10

[isawitbefore]

"One day, the beauty of your mind and the beauty of art will be as one..."

Heather Terrell and Victoria Christopher Murray, The Personal Librarian

[xinesegalas]

New York's Timeless Tales

Discover the enduring charm of New York City in literature. Dive into the pages of 'Mrs.' and 'The Personal Librarian' to unravel its timeless tales. 📚🏙️ #NYCStories

NYC as a Character in “Mrs.” and “The Personal Librarian” Few cities have the dynamic personality and narrative power of New York City. Its vibrant society, streets, history, and energy are more than just a setting or backdrop. A long-time muse for storytellers, New York City is a character in its own right. This was particularly evident in two books that I read this year: the contemporary…

[pmg227]

Favorite Reads of October '23

“But while I can conceive of someone filling up a 100+ book Goodreads goal with pure garbage and being the worse off for it, truthfully, I would prefer every over-indulgent reader of modern pulp to every non-reader and philistine in the world who denies the value of books generally. The excess, in this case, is nearer to the virtue than the deficiency. So, while spending time each semester…

[lesbxdyke]

I would like to again big up libraries as safe spaces for people of all types!

I had a psychotic episode in my local library while I was in there working and had convinced myself that I was in a bubble dimension and if I left the library I would die, and that being what had happened to the librarian because I hadn't seen them in an hour (it's a small, local library. You can see the librarians desk from where I sit to work)

Now obviously they weren't dead, they were just in the little office that I couldn't see into.

I'm also lucky enough to be a very self aware psychotic, so I reached out to my support network to make sure I got home safely. But none of them could actually get me OUT of the library and I was still absolutely certain that if I stepped off the carpet and onto the tile, I would die.

So I got up, I made my way to the desk, I found the librarian and I said "I need your help. I'm having a psychotic episode and this is what I currently believe. Could you please come out from behind your desk and stand on the tiles so I can see it won't kill me?"

And they did. They didn't shame me, or laugh, or tell me it wasn't real. They said "Yeah, that must be scary." And thanked me when I admitted I'd thought them dead and been really upset about that because I liked them.

And then stood there on the tile, while I stood on the carpet, for ten minutes while I chatted shit and tried to build up my courage to step on the tile, just in case. Including telling me that if this happened again and I needed to call someone, to disregard the usual 'don't call people in the library' rule and just do so after I promised I was going to be calling my husband the second I was on the tile so he could safely walk me home.

(& so no one worries: my husband got me home safe, and a friend came to check on me a little while later and brought me food and I'm fully Cognizant and out of it now)

I cannot imagine another place where I could approach someone and say that and not get the police or an ambulance called on me. Neither of which I needed or would have been helpful.

I cannot imagine another place where a member of staff would stand somewhere for ten minutes to make sure I felt safe enough leaving.

I cannot imagine another place where I would not only be explicitly welcomed back, but be told "If this happens again here, disregard our normal rules to take care of yourself."

I cannot imagine another place on this earth that I would feel safe enough returning to, 3 days later, after an episode like that.

Libraries are a fucking Godssend and should be protected at all costs!

[satashiiwrites]

“One day, the beauty of your mind and the beauty of art will be as one.”

—The Personal Librarian by Marie Benedict and Victoria Christopher Murray

[bevebevo]

gebby 😊

[densewentz]

Angel x Demon (aka when your coworker is a literal nightmare) Inktober day 4! This is technically more like angel vs demon but i wanted to put the Corinthian in that stupid fluffy halo so

[salty-dracon]

does sunday even know about the events of 2.6? is he aware of the banana virus?

like is he just going to join the express, pop into the archives, and be like "hey dan heng, can i read your data bank entries on penacony, i want to see what my home's been like ever since i left"?. and after dan heng gives him a nod, five minutes later is sunday going to have the bravery to ask him "what the hell do you mean a minion of dr primitive unleashed a monkey-themed memetic virus on penacony and all three of you were infected and started saying 'bana' every sentence? were you cured? ... is my sister okay?"

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Dandelion (A Villain Story)

You stub your toe and the mind control breaks.

Your power snaps from the shock and the hundred or so clones you’d been controlling disappear with a pop! You hold your breath as the steel they’d been carrying clangs loudly in the cavernous room. You’re the only one in this sector but that was loud. If by some miracle nobody heard that, surely your abductor will notice you’re free any moment now—

Devil Eyes doesn’t notice.

You cover your mouth with both hands, pressing so hard that your teeth creak. There’s a hysterical giggle struggling to claw its way up your throat. You’ve been shot, stabbed, and beaten, but this is what it takes to break Devil Eyes’ control? Your pinky toe throbbing after kicking a stray steel beam?

Fuck, that’s funny.

You breathe in through your nose slowly. Only when your lungs hurt worse than your toe from how much air you’re holding in them do you release your mouth. You breathe out in six quick bursts. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

You’re free.

Holy shit, you’re free! How long has it been? Six months? Eight? You know it’s not summer anymore, but Devil Eyes has had you working in the depths of his lair for weeks now and you’ve lost track of time. That’s fine though, you’re pretty sure you’re still in Arizona and there’s sunshine even in winter. Your breath hitches in your chest. The sun! Oh, the sun, you want to see the sun so bad and now you can because you’re free--

Don’t cry. Don’t make a sound. Assess. Act.

Escape.

You’re in the delivery sector. There are piles of steel everywhere you look, tossed this way and that so that it looks like a giant failed game of Jenga. Your clones were carrying the beams from the truck in the docking bay to the appropriate facilities deeper into the mountain when they disappeared. Ha! Fat chance Devil Eyes finishes construction without you around. You’re the only reason this mountain lair is even possible. It would serve him right to spend so long stealing materials only to have nobody around to do the hard work for him.

That’s why I need to escape.

Spite is what keeps you moving. The truck driver is gone. He’s a real minion of Devil Eyes, not a brainwashed one like you. That means he’s probably in the living sector enjoying the benefits of willing servitude. Benefits like soda. And beds. And those little pillow mints they give you at hotels.

Your mouth waters.

Don’t you dare go back for a pillow mint, you scold yourself. It doesn’t matter how bad you’ve been craving one, forced to set them out and never allowed to eat one. You have the chance to escape and you’re going to take it.

You climb into the cab of the truck. The driver took his keys with him, but you’re a villain. You have the engine turning over in less than five minutes, the bed of the truck detached within three, the seat and mirrors adjusted in less than one.

Ten minutes after stubbing your toe, you’re driving out of the mountain and into the deepest of Arizona nights. Nobody sounds any alarms. Nobody starts shooting at you. How could they? You were the one manning the graveyard shift in the security room. You were the one at the turrets. You were the one doing it all while Devils Eyes and his crew slept.

The stars stretch above you. You crack the windows of the truck and suck in the fresh air greedily. Your eyes burn.

Not yet, you think. Your eyes smart and you bite your lip until the lump in your throat goes away. Not yet. As a villain, you’ve always made it a point not to let your guard down until the job is done.

This job isn’t anywhere near done.

----------,

Getting into one of Hero Force’s headquarters is either the best thing to happen to a villain or the worst.

Breaking into one is a badge of honor, especially if you’re able to get away with a trophy. Information, a hostage, even a paperclip. Anything that proves you were there and they couldn’t stop you from doing whatever you wanted.

Getting taken into Headquarters is a nightmare. It means you’ve been caught and caught good. Getting taken into Headquarters means the end of a masked villain’s career. Hero Force knows who you are from that point on and, even if you escape, they’re not going to lose track of you any time soon.

You’re not sure what walking into one is. A disgrace? An act of stupidity?

You park your truck illegally and push both doors open at the same time just a little after sunrise.

“Hello,” you say to the receptionist. He’s wearing the characteristic black mask of Hero Force personnel and you wait until his brown eyes shift from his computer to you before continuing. "I’ve been held captive by the villain Devil Eyes for the last six or eight months and I’d like to talk to somebody about it.”

“Pardon?” the receptionist asks. His fingers are frozen over his keyboard. “You—pardon?”

“I don’t know what month it is,” you say. Abruptly you realize you’re not wearing a mask. A chill shudders down your spine. Devil Eyes knows what you look like and now Hero Force does too. You are so fucked, you’re going to need to flee the country-- Think about it later. “So I don’t know how long I was brainwashed for.”

“Brainwashed?”

“By Devil Eyes,” you say. When the receptionist continues to stare at you, you shift your weight from side to side. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but is there someone higher up I could speak to?”

It turns out there is. The receptionist is only too happy to call them for you and things move very quickly after that.

They take you to the fifth floor of headquarters and into a very nice conference room. The receptionist brings you coffee, water, and a fresh change of clothes. He doesn’t bring you pillow mints when you ask but makes up for it by fishing out a crushed granola bar from the inner pocket of his blazer.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” you say. Crumbs tumble from your lips and onto the oak table. “Fuck.” You lick your fingers and pick them up as best you can, scooping them into your mouth as you go.

“We’ll have something delivered,” he says, eyes skittering away from you. “It’ll probably arrive before Arctic—”

“No, it won’t.”

You twist in your seat, granola bar stuffed in your cheeks. Arctic is standing in the doorway in full costume, sans cape. Her slate grey eyes study you a moment before she steps into the room. Rag Doll, her second in command, follows silently behind. Unlike his boss, he’s half in his civvies– jeans and long-sleeved Henley that shows off the extra joints in his arms and legs. His patchwork mask does little to hide the bags under his eyes.

“Ma’am,” the receptionist says. He’s flustered in the presence of the A-rank heroes, you can see it. He sketches out a bow and then seems to think better of it, jerking ramrod straight and shuffling towards the door. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Arctic watches him go with one pale brow raised.

As soon as the door shuts, Rag Doll sighs. “It’s his first day.”

“He didn’t get their name, did not relay a proper history, and called me ma’am,” Arctic says in her heavy drawl. She frowns and smooths her white hair away from her face. “That’s three strikes.”

“Wait until he watches all the HR videos before you start handing out strikes.”

“He should have finished those before he was stationed at the front door.” Arctic strides around the table and takes the seat at the head without looking at you. She pulls out a notebook from her utility belt, flipping to a blank page, and then finally looks at you. “Do you need another granola bar?”

Oh. She was stalling until you could finish eating. A smile comes to your face unbidden. “I missed your southern charm, Arctic.”

Arctic drops her pen.

Rag Doll, halfway into his seat, freezes. He stares at you with wide eyes. “Virus?”

Oh yeah. You used to compliment Arctic’s Southern manners a lot before Devil Eyes got you. “Long time no see.”

“Long time—it’s been a year,” Rag Doll says incredulously.

“You look awful,” Arctic says without a bit of manners to be found.

“A year?” The room swims. Since the wallpaper kind of reminds you of bile anyway it’s no surprise what happens next. “Fuck.”

You throw up.

------------------.

“I was going on the straight and narrow,” you’re saying an hour later. You’re in a different conference room, this one on the third floor. The walls are a nice, soothing blue and there’s a vanilla air freshener plugged into the wall. “I really was.”

“You’ve been with Devil Eyes this whole time?” Rag Doll asks. He’s seated across from you, leaning forward onto his elbows. He’d stopped Arctic from putting the power suppressors on you. She agreed when he pointed out they might kill you in your fragile state. “There’s never been any indication he can hold someone that long.”

“Well, he can,” you say. You wordlessly accept the tea Arctic slides across the table. The heat of it shocks you in the best way. You drink greedily, relishing in the warmth as it slides down your throat. “And not just one person. He could hold me and five of my clones at first. Then ten. Then twenty.”

“But your clones are you,” Arctic says. She refuses to sit, standing behind Rag Doll. She crosses her arms. “It’s impressive he was able to hold you that long, but it was just you.”

“Impressive?” You laugh without humor. “I’m not exactly impressed.”

“She didn’t mean anything by it,” Rag Doll says. He looks over his shoulder at Arctic and, when she nods, he continues. “It’s just that, from what we know about your powers, holding you and your clones would be the same as holding one person.”

“It’s not,” you say. You’re giving away too much information about your powers, but you don’t care. Devil Eyes needs to be stopped. “Every one of my clones is an exact replica of me. An exact autonomous replica of me. Otherwise, I’d have to be some sort of supercomputer to control them all.”

“You’re not?” Rag Doll asks. His voice is light, like it used to be during your fights. Teasing banter.

You’re not in the mood for banter.

“No,” you say shortly. “If I was, I wouldn’t have been caught.��

Rag Doll sobers. “How did that happen?”

“I was getting out of the game,” you say. You wipe the back of your mouth. The tea is sitting better than the granola bar, but you’re still feeling unsteady. You clear your throat. “I should have just disappeared, but I didn’t. I let a few of the locals know I was going to be leaving. Stupid of me. Stupider when I agreed to come to the goodbye party they were throwing.”

“Locals?” Arctic asks. Her voice is smooth and cold. “Which locals?”

You shrug. “Dreadwatt. The Ice Twins were in town back then, they said they’d stop by.” Your lip curls. “Devil Eyes.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very fun party,” Rag Doll says.

“No.” You didn’t think so either. But how do you explain that they were the only people who thought your low-level villainy meant something? Heroes and civilians just found your antics annoying. Villains found your schemes clever. “It was a way to mark the end of an era.”

“What were you going to do after?” Rag Doll asks.

Were. You can’t get mad at the past tense. You’re sitting in Hero Headquarters without a mask. Arctic has probably memorized every single one of your freckles. Even if she hasn’t, Devil Eyes knows your face. There’s no way you get to retire to an honest life now. “I was going to be a librarian.”

Rag Doll perks up. “You like to read? What genre?”

“Mostly science fiction.”

“Me too! Have you read—”

“Devil Eyes got you at the party?” Arctic interrupts. She shoots Rag Doll a chiding look and claims the seat next to him. She fixes you with her chilling gaze. “That right?”

“Yeah.” You don’t remember the moment it happened. That’s the scariest part. It took you weeks to be able to feel Devil Eyes’ control. Until then, everything still felt like your choice. “He had me start construction on his lair about a month after that. He was sure his control would hold by then.”

That makes Arctic lean forward. “His new lair? You’ve been there?”

You grin bitterly. “I’m the one who dug it out.”

“Dug it out? It’s underground?”

“Some of it.”

“Where?” Arctic flips open her notepad. “We know it’s east of the city and, judging by the truck you arrived in, it’s in the deep desert. Can you give us coordinates?”

“I’m pretty good with stars,” you say. Even now you can remember the exact position of them the moment you left the mountain. “I know exactly where it is.”

Arctic can’t hide the impatience in her voice. “Where?”

“Not so fast,” you say. You lean back, crossing your arms. Your heart pounds against your ribs. “I want a deal.”

Arctic snarls. “You don’t understand what’s at stake—”

Rag Doll puts a hand on her arm, quieting her. He smiles at you. “Now, Virus, you know—”

“Don’t call me that.”

Rag Doll blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t call me Virus,” you say. Your skin itches and you dig your nails into your arms to keep from scratching. Devil Eyes called you Virus. “I retired. I’m not Virus.”

“Then what would you like us to call you?”

Your mind scatters. “I don’t know. Not that.”

“Alright,” Rag Doll says gently. He waits a moment and, when you don’t offer up anything else, says, "You know we can't offer immunity agreements. Foresight would have to be here for that and we don’t have time for him to fly down from New York. What I can do—”

“I don’t want immunity,” you interrupt.

“You don’t?”

“You don’t?” Arctic echoes. She frowns, seemingly shaking off her impatience. “You’ll still be charged with your previous crimes, Viru—sorry. You’ll still be charged with your previous crimes.”

“That’s fine.” It’s not. You rub your arms, fingertips worrying at the half moon indents your nails bit into your skin. It’s the price you’re willing to pay to take down Devil Eyes. “That’s fine. I’ll pay for those. But I want to be there when you raid his lair. I want to be there when you catch him.”

“That’s too dangerous,” Rag Doll says immediately. He shakes his head. “Arctic and I both have mental defenses, but you don’t. We know your power and now, knowing the extent of it, we can’t risk having him turn you again. It’d be like facing an army—”

“You’ll need an army against him,” you interrupt again. You press a hand against your chest. “I know how many minions he has. I know the layout. I know the location. You need me.”

“But if he gains control of you again—”

“He can only control twenty of me,” you say. You’re feverish and jittery so you stand. You pound your hand against your chest. “Only twenty, so I’ll be a hundred of me. I’ll be so many that those he manages to ensnare won’t stand a chance against the rest. I can do it. I can be more than he can handle. He got the jump on me but he won’t again.”

Arctic furrows her brow. “A hundred? You can make that many clones?”

You laugh darkly. You weren’t a good villain. Your goals were always too small. Robbing a grocery store, taking over the local theater, stealing the water from the water tower. They don’t know what you can do. “I can do more than you know. I can do more than Devil Eyes knows.”

Silence fills the room as the heroes think. The air freshener sprays a new puff of vanilla.

Rag Doll clears his throat. “If we let you come—”

“Rag Doll!”

“—if ,” Rag Doll emphasizes to Arctic. To you he says, “You won’t kill anyone?”

Of course I’m going to— “No,” you say. You cross your fingers under the table. “It’s just….” You look down at the wood grain. You say in a small voice, “I had to escape alone.”

Whatever protest Arctic was about to voice dies on her lips. “There were others there?” Her gaze sharpens, a bloodhound on a scent. “Who? Where?”

Aha. You guessed right. Arctic is patient. Arctic is polite. She’s been neither of those things during this conversation. What she has been is impatient and demanding. Devil Eyes has someone Arctic cares about. Devil Eyes might even have a hero from Arctic’s team.

“I didn’t see them,” you whisper. You glance up from under your lashes to find the heroes hanging onto your every word. “But I know where he keeps them.” You bite your lip. “I—I shouldn’t have left them there. I know what it’s like being under his control. I know what he does.” You sit upright, meeting their eyes unflinchingly. “I want to save them. I’ll pay for my crimes after, I swear. I won’t run. But Devil Eyes needs to be stopped.” You let your voice crack. “Please. I need to help stop him.”

Arctic softens. “Virus—sorry. Please, is there anything else I can call you?”

Your lip trembles. “My mother called me Dandelion.”

“Dandelion,” Arctic says. “That’s lovely. Dandelion, I understand how you feel. I don’t think—”

Rag Doll stops her with a hand on her arm. “Arctic? Can we talk in the hall?”

“Of course.”

You watch the heroes leave the room. As soon as the door closes, your lip stops trembling. Your shoulders straighten. Your eyes stop glistening.

Rag Doll and Arctic will argue for ten minutes. You’re a former villain and, despite your lack of real villainy in your history, you can’t be trusted. You know Devil Eyes’ hideout, but you’re also fresh out from his control. You’re powerful, but that power can be turned against them.

But those arguments will only last ten minutes. The reality is that they don’t have a choice. You're not going to give them the location without being allowed to tag along. They don’t have time to wait for Foresight or even the Mind Squad who specialize in dealing with mental powers like Devil Eyes’. They’re heroes and the villain has one of their own. They have to act.

You settle back in your chair. They’ll agree to your terms. Your stomach twists. It’s nauseating to think about going back there. A year. Devil Eyes stole a year from you.

You hide your grin as the door opens.

“Alright. Let’s get you kitted out. You’re coming with us, Dandelion.”

You’ll be stealing a lot more from him.

Then instead of crying, maybe you’ll be laughing.

Only one way to find out.

--------

Thanks for reading! I love mind powers in the Superhero universe but they sure are a pain to write!

If you’d like to read stories like this or like others on my blog a week before I post them here, please consider supporting me on Patreon (X)

Next week’s story is already up! Summary:

Sometimes, when things go very wrong, the Chosen One gets a wish. That’s where Danielle comes in. TW blood, death, violence, child death

Thanks again for reading!

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

shout-out to my public library for getting me an inter-library loan copy from the fucking LIBRARY OF CONGRESS?!?

[supermauswithagun]

What did Jonathan Harker see in Budapest? pt. 2

Our dear friend Jonathan returned to Budapest! Except that he is not in the condition for more sightseeing. :( This time he will only see, as follows:

an ambulance. (No victorian era gentlemen were harmed while taking this photo. This is just a demonstration where doctors of the first ambulance company of Budapest were showing off their newest equipment at the 1896 Millennium Exhibition.)

The Old Szent János Hospital. Last year I’ve made a post about how the Hospital of St. Joseph and Ste. Mary did not exist, and why I think Jonathan spent his time recovering in the Old Szent János. Basically that was the only hospital in Budapest close to the Buda Hills where nuns were tending male patients. Jonathan asking for money to pay for his hospital stay suggests that he was in the Old Szent János, since this hospital mostly admitted poor and homeless people who could not pay for their treatment. (A new and more modern hospital was under construction, but it was opened a few years after Dracula was published.)

Except that I was wrong. Some people suggested that because of poor Jonathan was rambling about vampires and such things, he could have been taken to a mental hospital, and the Lipótmező Asylum fits Sister Agatha’s description just as well. Lipótmező is also in the Buda Hills, nuns were taking care of the patients, and it resembled a sanatorium more than the Old Szent János. Despite being an asylum, Lipótmező was a state owned hospital under strict medical supervision so there were no random experimenting like our other dear friend Dr. Seward did in Carfax. Anyway, here’s a picture of the Lipótmező as well, you decide which one you prefer for your upcoming fanfics.

And of course the nuns. In case of both the Old Szent János and the Lipótmező, they’ve belonged to the Company of the Daughters of Charity. Here’s one of them with a patient in front of the New Szent János Hospital in 1938.

Sadly I did not found any photos of the interiors of said hospitals, but here we have a picture from the 1896 Millenium Exhibition, showing hospital beds and a doctor’s uniform.

And if we were talking about fanfictions, let me be a little bit overindulgent here. I just love to imagine that after their wedding, when Jonathan starts to feel better, he and Mina try to use their remaining days in Budapest to make some good memories together before [spoiler]. They should really visit the Buda Hills, and have a picnic at the Normafa.

Or, if Jonathan feels up to it, they should walk all the way to the Gloriette at the top of the János Hill.

I just want them to be happy, okay?!

Again, all the pictures are from around 1897, the year when Dracula was published (except the one with the nun).

Sources under the cut: 

1. Ambulance:  Fortepan / Budapest Főváros Levéltára. Levéltári jelzet: HU.BFL.XV.19.d.1.10.250

2. Old Szent János Hospital: postcard published around 1890.

3. Lipótmező Asylum: illustration in Vasárnapi Újság from 1895.

4. Daughters of Charity nun: Fortepan

5. Hospital furniture: Fortepan / Budapest Főváros Levéltára. Levéltári jelzet: HU.BFL.XV.19.d.1.10.180

6. Normafa: Fortepan

7. Gloriette: postcard published around 1900.

[danascullysjournal]

Tamika Flynn, detail portrait. Welcome to Night Vale.

I don’t know how long I spent but I *adore* Tamika and her origin as a strong, bad ass girl who refused to let the librarians destroy her and her friends. Thank you Night Vale writers for making such amazing, strong woman characters (Laura excluded ofc)

As always click for better resolution.

Alternate version (darker) and details of librarians hand, book, and machete under the cut:

[hatsalad]

I'm actually so happy about the return to working class labourer Orion Pax. The king has returned. Nature is healing.

I've seen people not liking that Orion and Megatron are on the same social level and saying that takes away from the social tension between them, but I really disagree with that. Cause i think them being on the same social level and having similar life experiences adds to the tension. That way, they can parallel and contrast each other. Their story becomes not about how they're different because they have both lived very different lives, but instead, how they have both reacted to their experiences and how that has changed them individually. And I think that that would really give their future arguments and disagreements more bite between each other.

Through hardship, D-16 has become a cold Megatron and Orion a warm Optimus. Megatron is the glass is half empty. Optimus is the glass is half full.

Also G1 Orion was a working class legend, so get out of here with that cop shit.

[ghostlyarchaeologist]

Cursed.

The Librarians S04E11 The Trial of the One.