#charlotte reads

[lemonyinks]

finally sitting down and reading The Galaxy and the Ground Within. Loving it so far

one of the first characters introduced uses neopronouns

[charlottesbookclub]

oh fuck OH FUCK OH FUCK [shrieking]

okay omg I have so many thoughts thank you so much for sharing this! truly what a lovely holiday gift I feel so blessed 🙏🙏

first, your mind like YOUR MIND 🤯🤯 I absolutely love thinking about weird little first order cultural things since we get such brief glimpses in canon and it's so fun and interesting to imagine the stuff that would evolve in this very strange military environment that is also just like people's daily lives?? like the weird combo of always living in this martial environment while also navigating just like... life stuff is so interesting to me. all of this to say, the fucking thing about no marks on fellow officers????? and them sometimes using it as like a way to announce serious relationships?????? I was SCREAMING, I tell you, SCREAMING!!!!! anyway, brilliant brilliant brilliant absolutely 100000/10 no notes this is canon now

also ngl I had to skim-read the uniform inspection part like five times with my hands partially over my eyes before I could commit to reading it all the way through for real bc you rendered that sooooooo viscerally like ahhhhhhh I was sweating I was nervous I could feel it. also just your language use is always so fucking incredible like I'm gonna use the word again, but it just felt so visceral and it really placed me in that moment in such a convincing way. but also your wording is so well-rendered that I was like "fuck we're about to get totally humiliated in front of the whole crew but this turn of phrase is extraordinary"

and of course I am a sucker for fluff so I loved the ending of this, especially given the angst in the first part of this little set of stories. like hux you absolute idiot (affectionate)

as always, thank you so much for sharing your writing – it is such a gift to the fandom and such a genuine delight and joy to read! ☺️💕

Hello~ congrats on 2k~ I'm absolutely delighted you're including writing for Hux to celebrate, I've read absolutely all of your Hux works a million times and I love them so much still!!! I'd love if you could write Track 7 for Hux please~ thank you ^-^

Track 7: Kiss on My List by Hall & Oates  - Give me a character and a fluff prompt (or give me free rein) and I'll write a short blurb or headcanons about it.

Together

AN: This is a second part after this request for those of us who can't handle angst 😬 and thank you for the request, pookie! I hope you all enjoy!! Comments, likes and reblogs are always appreciated tee hee

Warnings: Mainly hurt/comfort whoops, language, heavy embarrassment for the reader, lots of talk about gossip, Hux is an awkward little freak, I made up a bunch of stuff about First Order bureaucracy, some brief mentions of sex but nothing too raunchy, and fluff at the end!

There are a lot of rules—both written and implied—when you're working for the First Order.

You're not sure where you'd find don't cry when you're on duty on either of those lists. But you know how dangerous the sting in the back of your throat is, either way.

You've never felt like crying on the bridge before, except for maybe from boredom. While there were tense moments, those were few and far between—like the stretch of empty space between stars.

And still, no battle or pursuit has come close to the horrible feeling that's smothering you as you stare down the back of the general's great coat.

He refuses to look at you, addressing all your orders to the viewport or the space above your head, his back to you whenever he can manage it.

There had been a senseless, simmering thrill that used to rush through you, before you had ruined everything—all those times you had caught the general staring, when you had watched the pink flush of blood crawl over his skin and imagined what the heat from him would feel like echoing from his hands, the press of his body, his wet, flushed mouth.

Stupid. Wanting him. Wanting anything, but especially this—to feel cared for, held, desired, by a man like the general. A man so single-minded, so dedicated to the cause his name was practically synonymous with the First Order itself, the unmitigated power that formed weapons and machines and the ruthless people who wielded them.

And why wouldn't he be ruthless with you? Maybe you were just one of many for the general—another subordinate, something to be used, designed to be discarded in the end.

You've made yourself thoroughly miserable following this trail of evidence to this conclusion, but it's difficult to find an alternative. Why else had he sent you away so soon after you had been together, had banished you from his quarters with the marks he'd left on your skin still stinging?

A voice you recognize too well interrupts your thoughts.

"Fall in. Uniform inspection."

Speaking of misery. Captain Cardall's had arrived on the bridge, sharp eyes wandering, always stained with a shade of loathing he saved just for you.

But you fell in to line, regardless, doing your best to school your expression into something neutral, if not a little resigned. You had given up long ago, trying to find some way to meet Cardall's impossible standards. No matter how much time you spent reading over the uniform regulations, he'd manage to find something you missed—or make up a new rule on the spot, couched in official language as an excuse to redress you, to take you down a peg.

Something he found necessary, although you couldn't imagine why.

You're near the end of the line, and so you're forced to wait, watching as the rest of your team is excused without comment, even Tawani, whose boots are so scuffed they're starting to look gray.

Whatever. Cardall and his pettiness and his stupid demerits were the least of your concerns.

It's your turn now, and you can smell the captain's breath as he nears—day old caff and the rotting stink of his soul. You snap to attention, eyes forward, doing your best not to keep your expression still and stony.

The man circles, looking for a loose stitch, a wrinkle, a crooked cuff. You don't dare breathe, but you can't miss his deepening frown as he scans each and every inch of you, desperation practically oozing out of him.

Fuck. Had you actually managed this time? It's a small consolation prize on the shittiest of days, but you'd take the wins you were offered, even if they couldn't possibly make up for your losses.

You've celebrated too soon. Cardall's face juts toward yours, only inches from pressing against your skin and your stomach rolls with nausea. You can't stop yourself from flinching, from turning away from him and his glacial gaze.

It's hardly a millimeter that you've moved, but you've given the captain everything he needs. A pit forms in your stomach as the joy returns to Cardall's features, the slow curve of his wicked smile.

And you know you've irreparably fucked up.

"Officer," he addresses you, two of his gloved fingers slipping into the space between your collar and skin. His touch is sickening, even through the leather, makes you want to run, but you're stuck, glued in place with fear. "What is this?"

Gods, if you had any luck left in you, any good-will from some unseen power, you'd drop dead right now.

It doesn't happen, though. You stay on your feet, even with the way your knees go numb. Everyone on the bridge has turned to watch. You think, although you may be imagining it, that the general's eyes are turned your way as well, the burn of his attention tracing up and down your spine.

"It's . . ." fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, "a hickey, sir."

You're half surprised Cardall doesn't start doing a little jig with the way he preens, brimming with excitement at this new and wonderful opportunity to humiliate you.

"A hickey?" he asks loud enough for everyone to hear—as if they weren't already engrossed in your torment—and you nod, his thumb just brushing the edge of the edge of the bruise you had tried to cover.

The general had done a number on you, truly. And left the galaxy's worst souvenir.

"Well," Cardall continues, finally pulling away from you to clasp his hands in front of his chest, "this is a serious infraction, isn't it?"

He takes his data pad from his assistant, a mousy young cadet who never utters a word. Cardall makes a big show of bringing up the uniform regulations, making a note on your personnel file that spares no details, narrating the description of the bruise and its location in enough detail it brings heat to your cheeks.

You're immobile, in flames, your own personal funeral pyre lit with shame. And still, you can only think of the general, of the way he must be feeling, watching this display. Did his shame mirror your own, his cheeks pinked as he remembered the feel of your skin between his teeth? Or was he disgusted by you, by this connection he wished so desperately to sever?

"Now," Cardall says, ready to deliver his killing blow, "to whom shall I send the fine for damage to First Order personnel?"

There's a nasty snicker from somewhere outside your line of sight. Everybody was familiar with the rule about visible marks left on other officers—meant to keep younger, and more volatile, cadets from fighting, the threat of a fine pulled from their pitiful service stipends enough to curb most tempers. Or convince the cutthroat ones to be cunning enough not to get caught.

But there was a secondary consequence—officers strutting into work, bruises painting their necks and a smirk on their lips when they announced the responsible party. For the younger and less responsible among you, it had become a particularly bold way to announce a serious relationship, a sign of commitment.

Not an option for you, of course.

"I take responsibility for the damage, sir," you state, feigning confidence and hoping no one will notice the way your voice shakes, "I'll cover the fine."

A hum of disappointment, a rush of whispers. It's allowed, certainly, but will only increase the intrigue, the rumors that will follow you around for weeks, or even longer, if all other wells of drama stay dry.

Captain Cardall sneers, but he's left impotent in this, at least. He makes another note on his data pad and stalks away to the next officer in line, but he must be at least a little satisfied with his torment, given the little hop in his step and the set of his shoulders.

You breathe, in and out, in and out, but just barely—too aware of your still-captive audience to allow yourself anything like relief. Instead, you blank your mind of everything that's just happened and turn back to your station, becoming a machine, emotionless and unblinking.

You spend the rest of your shift ignoring the unmistakable burn of the general's gaze.

Your time on the bridge comes to an end, and your replacement materializes at your side, finally releasing you. It's a quick walk back to your quarters, one you manage without tearing up or screaming in the halls, relishing the way your door sounds as it falls closed, sealing you safely from the shitstorm outside.

Finally alone, you fall back against the wall and take your first real breath.

Now you could break down in peace.

"Are you alright?"

It's mortifying, the way you jump at the whisper, the way your eyes—blown wide with fear—find him in the center of the room, watching you.

The general looks achingly handsome; you can't help but recognize it. High spots of color in his cheeks, his dark eyes flashing in the light, and it breaks your heart all over again to have him here in front of you.

"General," you force the word out, then try for some semblance of decorum, straightening your posture like it could ground you in such strange circumstances.

He only nods, and though you'd never truly trust your ability to read him ever again, there is something about the expression he wears—brows furrowed and meeting in the center, eyes turned down at the corners.

The general is worried, and the expression is not at home on his face.

He must not want you to see it, because he's swift to glance away from you, eyeing the walls without seeing much, the fingers on one hand tapping at the palm of the other.

It's so different from the last time you were alone. Any awkwardness had been swallowed up by the heat of the moment—his arms wrapped tight around your waist, those hungry and desperate kisses that still made your knees grow weak.

You can't speak, and even if you could, you're not sure what you would say. Why had he come here? To berate you? To thank you for letting all the embarrassment fall squarely on your shoulders?

"I—" the general starts, then pauses, flashing his eyes to yours, "I would have waited for your return, but given the circumstances—"

The circumstances. That's one way to put it.

"Of course," you mumble, and you do understand. If anyone had seen him waiting for you outside your quarters, it would have only offered greater fuel to the blazing stories that were undoubtedly already traveling the ship, red-hot and sparking from one person to the next.

"Are you alright?" The general repeats his question, still watching, still unreadable, but there's a softness to his voice that's entirely unfamiliar.

You nod, barely, throat tight and sore, eyes ready to well with tears at this small sign of concern—that he had sought you out, despite everything.

The general presses his lips into a tight line, and there's something in the cant of his body, tense with forward energy, leaning toward you like this small distance pains him.

"I've taken care of the fine," he tells you, "discretely. And the notes in your file."

You open your mouth to speak, to thank him, but no sound makes it out. There are tears now, pooling at the bottom of your lashes, but you won't blink, won't let them fall.

General Hux does step forward at the sight of them, fervent, the space between you shrinking, close enough he could reach out and touch you, if he wanted.

"And I'll take care of Captain Cardall, as well."

The words, and the severity behind them, drain the color from your face.

"No, please," you caution him with a shake of your head, "it will only make people talk more."

Cardall would certainly not react well to any kind of criticism—especially not where you were concerned—and the well of bitterness inside him was deeper than any other you had known. He'd spread the story himself, no doubt, and the connections were easy to make.

But the general is undisturbed.

"I don't care if people talk."

Spoken with all the authority in the world. You should have known a man like the him couldn't be frightened by a few whispered words.

Against your will and without any influence on your part, a little hope blossoms in your chest. He isn't embarrassed by you, isn't ashamed that others might try to guess at a relationship.

The general's eyes drop from your own, tracing the collar of your uniform, and he reaches out a hand, pausing just before his gloved fingers meet the skin of your neck.

"May I?" he asks, and you nod in confirmation, breath catching in your throat as he pulls your uniform out of the way, eyes the mark he had left on your skin.

His skin goes pink, cheeks rosy when he sees how he had stained you in the heat of the moment, sees it with the eyes of all the others who had witnessed the spectacle of you.

"I'm-" he flushes deeper, eyes bewildered," You must know how very sorry I am for— for this."

"Don't be."

It's the polite thing to say, you think, in a moment like this one, but you mean it. Being with him had been worth all the pain.

His eyes flash, wide with surprise now, and you don't miss the way his fingers brush at the column of your throat, reaching for more of you.

"Really?"

His tone incredulous, so different from what you're used to that you breathe out a laugh, letting your own hand reach up to rest on his outstretched arm, just brushing at the bare stretch of skin between his glove and the cuff of his sleeve.

He takes another half-step forward, his hand moving to cup at the curve of your neck.

"I had thought—" he starts, but he can't get the words out, eyes so wide and open, marveling at the touch of your hand.

He doesn't need to say it. You know what he had been thinking because those same fears had been yours.

How delightful it is to have been proved wrong.

You pull him closer, stroking your hand down the sleeve of his uniform and there's only a little hesitation in his touch when his other hand meets your waist.

General Hux smiles at you, really, and the expression is miraculous, has him glowing. Your heart stops beating.

He kisses you, slow, so very unlike the last time, and you feel that miraculous smile pressed against your own.

Nothing could be better.

[stardustscripted]

[mr-rochester-of-thornfield]

You’re in her DMs, I’m screaming her name across the moors and she somehow hears me. We’re not the same.

[amicus-noctis]

“…Many things interested her, and nothing satisfied her entirely.” ― Ivan Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

[joy-girl]

Okay so you're telling me that Charlotte Lola rejected this man???

And on Thriller Bark she went after Absalom? Girl 😭😭😭

[haveyoureadthisbook-poll]

project gutenberg my beloved

[entiqua]

mixing two of my fave pieces of media together like some kinda lab concoction. i've been thinking about this for weeks. yes i'm normal

[fictionadventurer]

Maybe the problem with Christian fiction is that it's non-denominational. People are just "Christian", with no effort put into showing what practicing that religion looks like for them specifically. No indication that there are other Christians who could have different beliefs. No wrestling with differing ideas and the struggle of how one should live out their Christian faith. And that makes it unrealistic and unrelatable.

[newnamesamecharlotte]

„You were simply looking at your knife and your fork and your spoon and tried to remember which did what. The spoon with its concave pit was probably for transferring liquids.“

Harrow the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir

Sleep deprived Harrow is the best 😅

[this-tastes-lemony]

Falsettos Food Theory

Okay so someone asked what this is and I really wanna explain! So the falsettos food theory is that food represents love throughout the Marvin trilogy.

In the show, In Trousers, Marvin is very strict about what kind of food he wants, and he gets very upset when he doesn’t get it imminently or the way he wants. For example, in the song ‘How Marvin Eats his Breakfast” there is the lyric,

“No one looks busy in this kitchen

And my breakfast isn't ready

And my stomach aches.”

This is in reference to that no one at that moment is giving him the love that he wants, and that he aches for it. Later in the song he also says ,

“I don't want miracles from heaven

Just some eggies over spinach over toast

No, I will not apologize!

She should win a prize:

Very best emoting

That girl can't cook”

When he says the first line he doesn’t literally mean he just wants a basic breakfast, he means that he doesn’t want much, he just wants to feel loved. By saving “that girl can’t cook” he doesn’t mean she’s lousy at making food, he means that she doesn’t give him the kind of love that he wants. One of the other ladies says

“maybe she can’t cook, but have you seen her milk a cow?” Implying that sexually she “provides” to Marvin, even if he doesn’t romantically like her (obviously this means nothing, just because they can be sexually active does not mean that it is love).

Another one is in Whizzer Going Down he says,

“he hates my wife

I hate his food”.

He’s saying he hates when Whizzer shows him love because he is not ready to accept the fact that he can be loved and he can love another man.

There are many more references of this in the show In Trousers and if anyone wants to hear them I’ll gladly go into it in another post!!

The ones in Falsettos are even more obvious references to love. In the song Tight Knit Family, Marvin sings,

“We all eat as one

Wife, friend, and son

And I sing out as they cook

I love my tight-knit family

I love the way they cook linguine”

They all eat as one meaning they are all receiving love from one another, even if it isn’t good. The next line being “I sing out as they cook” (singing out meaning to say or shout something loudly, most likely implying the unhealthy relationship he’s in with his family) this line is saying that while they provide him love and what ever he asks, he continues to complain about it.

However, in the next line he says “I love the way they cook linguine” which is a considered normal traditional meal for a lot people. This is showing that he enjoys when they provide him with basic normal love, instead of arguing or disagreeing with him.

Another reference later on in the musical is in the ENTIRETY of the song “This Had Better Come To A Stop”. The first set of unique lyrics though is what I’ll cover.

“Whizzer's supposed to always be here

Making dinner, set to screw

That's what pretty boys should do

Check their hairlines, make the dinner

And love me”

This is saying that Whizzer is supposed to always be at Marvin’s command, loving him and giving himself to Marvin sexually at all times. He mentions making dinner twice in these lyrics, again implying that he doesn’t want Whizzers love unless it’s later in the day once he’s gotten his love from his other family ( breakfast specifically).

Another general reference to food equaling love is Cordelia’s entire character. All she does throughout the show is provide food and such to the characters, this being her giving them constant love. Since Cordelia was giving Marvin so much food (presumably) during the two year gap during intermission, we can assume that her unique and (sometimes) not so great food taught him that he doesn’t always get to choose what to eat, but that he should be greatful someone is cooking for him anyway. I think Cordelia is one of the most amazing characters in the story.

For all of the song “Days Like This” she’s trying to get Whizzer to eat something, meaning she’s trying to share her love with him.

In the song “Jason’s Bar Mitzvah”, Dr. Charlotte says

“She's cooked for some 200 guests

[CORDELIA]

We number not that many

Actually... we're seven”

This shows that she has provided so much love for all of these people, even though there’s only seven. Only a couple lines later, she tries the food Cordelia made, and says that the food “tastes really yummy.” (in the pro shot Trina nods her head to agree).

This is important to me because it shows that Cordelia finally found a way to show/express her love with the rest of the characters, and have them reciprocate it for the first time on stage, showing that they are all at peace and finally love each other.

Just like in trousers there are hundreds of more references in Falsettos so if any of you would like me to go more into it I’d be happy to!

This is all speculation of course, we don’t know if any of this was intentional, buts it’s by far my favorite thing to talk about that’s falsettos related. Hope you enjoyed reading!

[charlottesbookclub]

OMG YESSSSS THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR TAKING MY REQUEST AHHHHHHHH I'M SCREAMING!!!!!!!!!

hell yes arranged marriage au 5ever I am obsessed with everything you write for this!!!!! 💕💕💕💕

(also sorry I'm a bit late in reblogging this! I liked it, read it, and loved it but then everything was shit and I didn't have the energy to properly express my love for it until now ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹)

okay so, a couple things:

first, I looooved this bit

"You match," you tell Armitage, and he scoffs a little, but doesn't pull his hand away, his fingers still gripping tightly at your own.

him scoffing but (maybe) secretly loving it is sooooooooo classic hux and felt so in character for him

second, I can totally see a scene like this playing out prior to this story:

hux: phasma, I'm so fucked. how do I show my wife that I love her? phasma: *sips her whiskey* hux: I don't know how to do grand romantic gestures and I make a fool of myself every time I try to say anything *places his head in his hands with failed husband energy* phasma: she hates her father you know hux: *perks his head back up instantly* patricide I can do! you're a genius, phasma! what better romantic gesture is there than that! 😍

anyway, enough of my ramblings! I just wanted to let you know that I loved this and it was such a beautiful spot of comfort and warmth! ☺️☺️ thank you so much for this lovely piece and for all of your amazing writing – it is so treasured and appreciated! 🥰🥰

hi star! I saw your post about some election season comfort, so I hope it's okay if I send in a request! ☺️ (this is @charlottesbookclub btw, that person who's very unhinged about your stunning hux arranged marriage au – that might contextualize this ask a little haha)

I'd be so down to hear any additional thoughts you have on hux and his wife!! 🧡🧡

I was having some random scattered thoughts, but do with these what you will or feel free ignore them entirely!

them visiting his wife's home planet (which maybe has seasons, and thus perhaps some nice fall foliage) and she's like "the colors are so gorgeous, it looks just like your hair" to hux and he gets all flustered

they finally take that shared bath he fantasized about when he saw her in the tub??

can we give hux space hot coco?? like maybe again, it's a thing on his wife's home planet and she gives him some and he gets one of those marshmallow/whipped cream mustaches (space version of course lol) and she laughs at him, and he's like "ah fuck" and she's like "no not like that, you just look cute" and then fluff??

idk if these are anything, but they were the autumnal themed fluff thoughts that were circulating through my brain! again, literally no worries if you'd rather not do anything with them, I'd be so down to hear anything you'd like to share! ☺️🧡

anyway, I just want to say thank you for doing this, because election anxiety is so real! 💕💕 and if you don't end up having the energy to get to this, no worries at all! ☺️ I just want to say that I appreciate you and your writing so much and I hope you're able to take care of yourself during this stressful time! 🥰🥰

AAAAAAHHHHHH YAY!!!! I'm so happy I'm not the only one who loves the arranged marriage AU and I will happily chat with you about it forever and ever and ever and ever 💖 thank you for your sweet request and your even sweeter words, my love! wishing you peace of mind!

Warnings: a few vague allusions to patricide but nothing specific 🤭

The air is crisper than you remembered—cleaner in your lungs than anything you'd been breathing on The Finalizer, despite all the filters and processes it went through as it circulated.

You pull in cold, aching lungfuls, full of the smell of smoke and decaying leaves and fine leather—from Armitage's hand in yours, warm even through his glove.

Maybe this is just what it feels like to breathe without your father around.

Your husband had something to do with it, you're sure. You haven't asked, and he hasn't mentioned it. All the gratitude in you is aimed in his direction, regardless. For more than just this.

"How long has it been," you ask him, quiet, like you might break the stillness, pop the comforting shell that holds you both, "since you've been planet-side for this long?"

His eyes, normally impenetrable and grey, shine green in the light of the sunset, and his breaths grow a little heavier when you press closer against him to stave off the cold.

"It's been— a long, long time."

When Armitage meets your eyes, his cheeks and nose are dusted with pink from the cold air, but the color only deepens when your lips brush the shoulder of his coat.

You tug him further into the copse of trees, just past the garden and the greenhouse, into the shelter of their branches. Vivid leaves dust the ground you walk and the sky in the spaces between sunlight, and your heart swells with a happiness you had never imagined for yourself.

You had sobbed, after your father told you, cried and cried into the soft dirt here beneath your feet before you had ever seen the man who was supposed to be your husband.

It had felt like a death sentence. An ending. A thin slip of silk tied over your eyes before the executioner pressed the blade to your throat.

But it's all so much sweeter than any life you could have dreamed of—to be here with a man who blushes at the brush of fingers, who shows you in his every movement, in his every look, how deeply devoted he is to you.

You come to a stop, gentle, turning to face your husband, finding his other hand and taking it in your own.

"What is it?" he asks, and his voice is strained, on a knife's-edge of anxious.

You part your lips to speak, but no words make it out, your eyes caught on something just above his earnest, and a little frightened, gaze.

It almost blends in—a little more green than the reddish-blond of his hair, and you pick the leaf out by the stem, holding it in the space between you.

"You match," you tell Armitage, and he scoffs a little, but doesn't pull his hand away, his fingers still gripping tightly at your own.

"Do you like them?" you ask, and his eyes stray from yours for a moment, taking in the scenery with a critical set to his brow, determined to answer you honestly.

"I do," Armitage nods, and you toss the leaf to the side, taking his hands again.

Your face folds into a smile.

"I love you, Armitage."

His eyes go wide. You've frightened him, but he won't let you pull away from his grip.

The space between you shrinks with each shuffle of your feet, moving closer because you want him to know you understand. Know that he won't chase you away.

"It's alright. You don't have to say it back."

Armitage nods, relieved—you feel it when his nose brushes your cheek, breath hot against your skin. Maybe he does say the words back to you in the seconds before his lips meet yours.

✨☕️✨ Cozy Time 2 ✨☕️✨

[north-noire]

When the Marionette finds itself awake in a workshop room, she soon comes to a realization there was more going on to what had happened to the child she was assigned to protect.

Hidden Hands Chapter 6 is out! AO3 Fic Link Here Previous Chapter Beginning Chapter

Hey, I would appreciate it if you reblog this post! I try my hardest for this AU fic, so reblogging it and being able to share it goes a long way!

[wronghands1]

[izzy-prizzy]

me when i see a dumb opinion about a character i love or any character in general that is fucking stupid, on twitter/tiktok: "tumblr would never"

[amicus-noctis]

“In books we never find anything but ourselves. Strangely enough, that always gives us great pleasure, and we say the author is a genius.” ― Thomas Mann

Painting: La Repubblica-Firenze – Francesco Chiacchio (2010/12)