#i love love love Fish in Exile by Vi Khi Nao

[yeyinde]

Hi! Are you planning on continuing the Winter Soldier AU for Price? It's so good!! 😩

thanks!!! and yes! i'm writing the last leg of part one right now so if all goes well, it should be posted sometime this week.

i also posted a bit on my sideblog too @/dvchvnde! but here's some to set the mood;

[gingernutsenthusiast]

right person, wrong time (variations on heartbreak)

@leemartenspoetry on tumblr

vita sackville-west & fegan’s 1924 café in dublin

everything everywhere all at once (2022)

@heavensghost��on tumblr

i had to get out by indigo de souza

‘calling a wolf a wolf' by kaveh akbar

river by joni mitchell

‘english song’ in a little larger than the entire universe: selected poems by fernando pessoa

slumber by ron hicks

fish in exile by vi khi nao

penitent magdalene by antonio ciseri

@ojibwa on tumblr

this is what the drugs are for by gracie abrams & the awakening by angelo morbelli

as good as it gets by fizz

lonely this christmas by mud & picture of the christmas tree at trinity college dublin, taken by me in december of 2022

this is what the drugs are for by gracie abrams & picture by andrew collins via globalnews.ca

@inanotherunivrs on tumblr & a polaroid of me taken by my ex-boyfriend

‘in a dream you saw a way to survive’ by clementine von radics & a picture of my ex-boyfriend's window, taken by me

bluets by maggie nelson & the poolbeg generating station, dublin

‘unrequited’ by sasha m george & inheritance by matthew w. cornell

[unknown]

@ faraway on instagram & lavender sprigs farm cut by linda jacobus

the museum of heartbreak by meg leder

[unknown]

‘seaside improvisation’ by richard siken

@ dracarysgang on twitter

@-love-letters-i-never-sent

@fromdarzaitoleeza on tumblr

explosions by ellie goulding

‘i had a dream about you’ by richard siken

the beatrice letters by lemony snicket

la la land (2016)

‘catalog of unabashed gratitude’ by ross gay

@stuckinapril on tumblr

@deathlywounded on tumblr

some are always hungry by jihyun yun

‘speaking practice’ by franny choi

 a self-portrait in letters by anna sexton & a picture of my ex-boyfriend in a lake in Orfű, Hungary

@sunsbleeding on tumblr

‘there is no absolution for the fallen, only the dying’ by p.d

[cowgurrrl]

Killer

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author's Note: FINALLY

Summary: “God is fucking with my oblivion. If he wants forgiveness, he shouldn’t have given us memory.” — Fish in Exile by Vi Khi Nao [2.7k]

Warnings: canonical type violence, PTSD symptoms, implied past violence, probably incorrect wound care, vague mention of Joel's sobriety, maybe love is enough to keep us alive

She's still shaking when you manage to get her to sit down long enough to look at the blood on her face and hands. Most of it isn't hers, but you can tell by the disengaged look in her eyes that she still paid for it. It isn't until you get some food and water in her that she seems more present, more there. You somehow convince Joel to wait for you in the living room instead of standing menacingly in the doorway with the shotgun still slung over his shoulder. Besides, he definitely popped his stitches and got a few more injuries for his troubles and should not be standing longer than necessary. 

"I'm gonna clean you up and then see what I can do about your bumps and bruises. Is that okay?" You ask as you pull out the first aid kit you managed to save from the flames. She just nods, and her fingers flex against the lip of the tub she's sitting on when you raise your hands. 

You explain every movement as you swipe the cold washcloth across her sensitive skin. She flinches if you move too fast or unexpectedly, her body jerking in the direction of the door. You have to shush her and drop everything when she does to show her your nonthreatening hands. As if seeing the empty space in your palms will ease the tension in her shoulders and erase the memories from her head. You breathe deeply, and she copies you until she relaxes enough for you to continue. It takes a long time to get a full inventory of her injuries. 

The notch on her nose isn't deep enough to need stitches, but you can tell it's shattered. From what you can immediately see, she has a broken nose, a concussion, and signs of smoke inhalation. Most of her injuries seem internal, too far away, and come with weeks of recovery time. The only ones you can treat outright are the burns and cuts on her hands and forearms. Even those you can only bandage and wait.  

"Is anything hurting that I can't see?" You ask gently, and she nods. "Where?"

"My…" her voice is crackly and seemingly too deep to be hers. She has to clear her throat to continue. "My ribs."

"Is it okay if I feel around to see if any are broken?" You ask, and she nods hesitantly. Carefully, you put your hands on her sides and apply some pressure every time you feel a set of ribs. She hisses when you press on the seventh and nearly jumps away when you move down to the eighth. "Hey, you're okay. I'm not trying to hurt you," you soothe. "It feels like you've got at least two that are broken, okay? They'll heal on their own, but it's gonna hurt like hell for a few weeks."

"Hurts like hell now." She mumbles.

"I know." You say, wishing there was more you could do. Little by little, she tells you everything that hurts, and you can tell her what's wrong— or, at least, what you're pretty sure is wrong. Without access to X-rays or real tests, everything is a best-guess diagnosis. "It looks like I've got some ibuprofen in here. That'll help with your pain for a while. It's completely safe." You say as you dig through the first aid kit and put two tablets in her hand. She hesitates, her eyes flicking to the door, hiding the two of you in the bathroom. 

"What about Joel?" She asks.

"There's more than enough in here for the both of you," you say and pass her a half-empty water bottle. "Please, just take them." It takes her looking at your supplies and ensuring you have enough to take them. She winces when she swallows but doesn't complain as you search for bandaids to cover her nose and burn cream for her fingers.

"Is he okay?" She asks so quietly you almost missed it. She's really asking if he's gonna die. If something is going to go wrong again and pull him into the bottomless pit of unconsciousness. If you're going to lose him. You screamed at her the last time she asked you that, and the memory makes you sick. She's staring at you like a dog waiting to be kicked when you nod. 

"He's gonna be fine. Might've ripped a stitch or two, but it's nothing we can't handle." You say, but she doesn't look comforted by your report. 

"Are you okay?" 

"I'm okay." It's easier than talking about the burns on your arm from trying to get in the building. Or the painful creaking in your hand that's surely the result of breaking bones across men's faces. Or the devastating flashbacks you fought through when Ellie tried to tell you what happened. 

"I'm sorry." She mumbles. You press your elbows to your knees and lean forward so she can't avoid you. 

"Look at me," you urge, not daring to say another word until she does. "I'm not mad at you. Joel is not mad at you. None of this is your fault," she tries to open her mouth to argue, but you raise your hand to stop her. "I was too hard on you when Joel got hurt. I expected too much of you, and that's not fair. I'm the adult. I should've been shouldering the brunt of it, not you. I'm sorry." She doesn't say anything, and you shift uncomfortably as you think. 

"Y'know, there was a long time when I didn't travel with Joel. It was just me. I was trying to get to Boston, and I tried to do everything right. I didn't get too close to QZs. I didn't light fires. I didn't trust anyone else because I…" you stumble. "I know what men do to women who are alone with no one protecting them." The confession settles in the space separating you. You don't need to say anything more, and she doesn't need to hear more. Your eyes sting, and you take a shaky breath to compose yourself. "Nobody can blame you for doing what you did, is what I'm trying to say, I guess."

"I… I didn't know what else to do," she whispers, tears shining in her eyes. "I was so scared. He got in my head. He wouldn't stop talking. I just..." she trails off and shakes her head. "He said I was like him."

"Sweet girl, you are nothing like him." You say, but her jaw flexes in protest, a stray tear rolling down her cheek.

"I'm violent. And angry."

"So am I," you say. "I'm angry every day, and I don't handle it well. You've seen it. Am I like him, too?" You ask, reaching out to wipe a tear away before it can fall down her chin. She freezes for just a second before leaning into you, letting you take the weight of her head in your hand. You tuck her into your chest while she's still pliant and rub her back as her cries turn more into anguished sobs. "I know. I know," you tell her over and over again because you do know. "You're nothing like him, honey. Not even close."

She cries and bangs her fists against your chest angrily and spits every curse she knows. She will never get to be the little girl she was when she left Boston. He took that from her, and she has to learn to live with that. You can handle a few more bruises if it means she feels better for even half a second. You let her do whatever she needs to do until she wears herself out and her tears slow. When she's done, you give her more water and food before scooping her in your arms and carrying her out to where Joel is waiting.

He looks up from where he's anxiously pacing, his right foot taking more of his weight than his left, and glances between you and Ellie. Quickly, he sets up a makeshift bed for her on the old couch equipped with a sleeping bag and blankets, balling up his jacket as a pillow. You lay her body down as softly as possible, mindful of her broken ribs, and she curls up the second she touches the familiar material. You sit on the couch with her, playing with her hair and rubbing her back until she falls asleep. She smells like smoke and sweat, but you don't care. Joel acts as a quiet sentinel by bouncing his eyes from you two to the room around you like someone could come in at any point with weapons and ill intent. 

Your fingers linger on the side of her neck, feeling her pulse against your skin as if to affirm that she's real and alive and here before you look at Joel. He looks as shaken as you feel. It was close. Closer than you've been in a long time, but she's alive. All three of you are, but at what cost? You swallow thickly and hesitantly stand from your perch next to Ellie, and Joel reaches for you, but you put a finger to your lips and gesture toward the bathroom. If she wakes up, she'll never go back to sleep, and she desperately needs rest after the past few weeks. He obediently follows you into the bathroom, and you leave the door cracked enough to see Ellie sleeping on the couch and for her to see you if she wakes up. You can keep both of them safe from here.

"Your turn, cowboy," you say as you put on a clean pair of gloves. He settles against the sink, sighing and shakily lifting his shirt to show you his stitches. About half of them held, and there's a slow flow of blood from the cut. Nothing to worry about. "You want anything for the pain?" You ask, and he shakes his head, jaw flexing. 

"No, no. It's fine. There's probably some adrenaline left or somethin'." He grumbles. 

"I'm sure that's how science works," you tease to lighten the mood as you gather the suturing supplies. He watches you with weary eyes like he's waiting for you to inject him with something else. You show him your gloved hands, containing only the needle and thread, and he takes a deep breath as he looks at you.

"I trust you," he says quietly. You think about pushing him to take something— anything— if it means he won't suffer, but you know it's a battle you'll lose like you always do. You might as well save time and just work. 

He's mostly quiet during the whole procedure, only letting out little huffs and grunts when you get to particularly sensitive areas. You mumble apologies and updates as you maneuver the needle as seamlessly as possible. Before, you didn't have the brain power to count his stitches and were, honestly, too scared to. There were too many factors against you, too much blood, too much fear. This time, you count all twenty-seven of them. He bleeds a little more, but it clots quickly and doesn't happen again once there's a neat line of real sutures across his stomach. You tape the bandage to his skin and pull his shirt back to cover it. He'll need a new one soon or, at least, a wash. 

Ellie's breathing is the only sound as you look for newer injuries. Bruises here and there and more broken or fractured bones in his already half-healed hand, but that's it. You stand from your place on the closed toilet lid to check his pupils for any signs of a concussion, but the second your face is close to his, he leans in just enough to kiss you. It's a welcome shock. 

When was the last time you kissed him? Jackson? Boston? In some distant time before Ellie? You never thought he'd open his eyes ever again, let alone be standing in front of you and kissing you. His lips are cracked but firm and familiar. His beard scratches your skin, but you can't be bothered to care. There are much worse things than the sting. His hands hold your face, and you want to fall into his chest, but you don't, conscious of his fresh stitches. Ellie mumbles something in her sleep, and you immediately break away from each other to stare at her through the crack in the door. She shifts but doesn't say anything else or show any signs of distress. When you look at each other again, his shoulders fall slightly. His hand lingers on your chin and turns your head a little to the left. "You've got a black eye." He murmurs, and you shrug.

"Yeah, David's guys got a few good hits in." You say. He looks over you, silently searching for something, and all you can do is watch him. He must seen how sullen and dead your eyes have become in the past few weeks. You've lost weight, so Ellie wouldn't. Your face is still dirty, and your hands are weak. You're not much to look at, and yet, he can't stop staring. 

When Joel suddenly found strength after hearing you yell after Ellie as men surrounded the house, you didn't necessarily have time for a warm reunion. You only had time to hide and wait for them to descend the stairs to the basement, where you could knock them around until they hit the ground. Even once the wheezing lungs returned to normal breathing and silence filled the house, you didn't talk about much more than getting Ellie back. 

Then, just like you did in the QZ, you did what you do best. You hurt people to get what you needed and killed them when you did. Joel screamed in their faces and demanded answers while you wiped blood from your hands and packed up your stuff. He finished them off brutally and without hesitation. It's the meticulous strategy and killing that reminds you of the Joel Tommy and Maria were so worried about. The one who didn't give two shits about his own life, let alone somebody else's. The one who was motivated by his pre-Outbreak work ethic to keep the monsters away, even if he became one in the process. The one who you met and worked with until the lines blurred. That Joel.

But in the dim light of the bathroom, with the smell of blood tinging the air, you can't find any traces of him. You only have the Joel you've come to discover on this journey, the Joel that was always hiding under the surface, the Joel you love. You take a deep breath and stare at him like if you look away, something will happen and try to kill him again. 

There's so much you need to talk about and plan for. You all need to recover and make up for lost time. You need to apologize and take care of them until it feels like it's enough to heal the pit of guilt eating away at you. You need to figure out what's next. But you can't find it in yourself to recount the events that happened while Joel was unconscious on the basement floor. Not yet. The only thought you keep circling back to is the exact one you've spent years pushing away and berating in hopes it would stop invading your psyche. Now, it feels unavoidable.

"I love you," you say. You're not quiet or hoping that he's deaf enough to miss it. You say it with everything that you are because no part of you has gone untouched by him. He kisses your forehead and pulls you into him.

"I know," he says simply. Years of tension and unspoken thoughts release from your shoulders, and you bury your face in his neck. "I love you." The syllables sound sweet as they break over his southern accent, and you want to wrap them around you for the rest of your life. You want to try to make a life where you can do that. You want him. You want a soft, happy life with Ellie and Joel where you don't have to morph into old forms to stay alive. 

You want a soft future, and if you have to bite and kill and scream to get it, then that's what you'll do. Nobody will ever take them away from you again.

[notmorbid]

fish in exile.

dialogue prompts from fish in exile by vi khi nao.

you need a doctor. i can't help you.

do you have any duct tape?

why did your boyfriend sleep with my wife?

everything is blue. like heaven.

i woke up this morning from a strange dream.

is it better to be in exile at home, or to be at home in exile?

i want to think of ways i can love you properly.

don't you think this is wrong?

we are not two halves. we are not some bifurcated thing.

tupperware shopping is very important.

there is nothing here anymore.

i have seen enough of death.

there are many fish in the sea. there are also many choices.

i want to write the world a letter.

are you in love with him?

sometimes i can't tell if my bones are my bones.

you can delay the inevitable, but you can't stop it.

where do you want to be? i can take you there.

i used to love to watch you sleep.

what are you doing out here?

what's your last name?

i have winter in my heart.

i feel safer here.

you look like an angel shedding its wings.

the passage of time can't be reversed.

you're too young to know what you haven't experienced.

you mistake violence for tenderness.

i haven't allowed anything in for so long.

you shouldn't make excuses for my bad behavior.

maybe getting over things is a little overrated.

grief and baking seem to go so well together.

i just don't feel anything anymore.

i can bear this burden for the both of us.

will you let me hold you?

you don't answer my calls anymore.

be gentle, will you?

i do not recognize myself.

disbelief is a headturner.

they say your heart is made of stone.

how can i apologize if i don't feel anything?

everyone wants a piece of your pain.

you can't trust happiness to treat you right.

if you're ready for a divorce, i won't deny you the opportunity.

[1rakus]

and honestly even if youre not promoting and youre just recommending a work casually to a friend then this is a really helpful way to describe it. for example, i want a friend to read Fish In Exile by Vi Khi Nao! some of the things i told her are:

- psychological drama

- heavily references figures in greek tragedies

- it has the maladjusted intensity / raw emotion of Atwood and Siken

- LUSCIOUS juicy elegant precise prose and portrayals of grief that are unnervingly realistic in their absurdity

- literally made me reassess how strong my attachments were to my loved ones because i wondered what type of loss would get me to do all of that

when someone recommends a novel to me i do NOT want the tropes. i want:

- genre

- author's inspirations

- what it's been compared to

- handful of adjectives about tone

- how YOU felt when you read it

[calamitydaze]

i love you like i love being hungry. it feels good to want things.

or: c!quackity, on starvation

the blind assassin, margaret atwood // nobody, mitski // abbey, mitski // stay soft, mitski // quackity’s tvtropes page // fish in exile, vi khi nao // moderation, florence + the machine // the complete short stories of ernest hemingway // unknown // unknown // i will tell this story to the sun until you remember that you are the sun, erin slaughter // crush, richard siken // children stories made horrific, daniel mallory ortberg // war of the foxes, richard siken // if my body could speak, blythe baird // euripides, medea // andy-deer // paper doll, flower face

[saintsebastiensbf]

Alice Notley, In The Pines

Sylvia Plath, Lesbos

Mitski, Nobody

“I’m walking out now into the soft light, the cooling hum of evening, and I will love you tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and still many more, so very many more tomorrows.”

Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Vera

E.E. Cummings, I Carry Your Heart with Me

Lucille Clifton, Mother-Tongue: After The Flood

Robert Lax

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

Vi Khi Nao, Fish in Exile

Aurora, Exist For Love

Margaret Atwood, Late Poems

repetition in poetry // part iv

(part i) (part ii) (part iii) (part v)

[metamorphesque]

Which books have left you feeling dumbfounded and in a "what the hell just happened" state but in a good way?

My favorite books are indeed the ones that leave me flabbergasted. 🌼

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

I'm Thinking of Ending Things by Iain Reid

The Vegetarian by Han Kang

Death with Interruptions by José Saramago

Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage by Haruki Murakami

Grief is the Thing with Feathers by Max Porter

Fish in Exile by Vi Khi Nao

The Schrödinger Girl by Laurel Brett

After Dark by Haruki Murakami

If Cats Disappeared from the World by Genki Kawamura

The Woman in the Purple Skirt by Natsuko Imamura

Tender Is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica

Peach by Emma Glass

And the biggest wtf did I just read (but I loved it) moment of my life

Earthlings by Sayaka Murata

[taylorjohnson]

love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. it’s like a religion. it’s terrifying.  someone to you, banners / unknown, unknown / writer in the dark, lorde / fish in exile, vi khi nao / this is what makes us girls, lana del rey / the chronicles of narnia, c.s. lewis / habits, nikki giovanni / waiting room, phoebe bridgers / i don’t smoke, mitski / in the garden, anna de noailles. 

[hotniatheron]

some good books!

tagged by the iconic @vowel-in-thug. 

I included some quotes to try and sell y’all on these!! READ THEM!!!

Kartography - Kamila Shamsie

“Can angels lie spine to spine? If not, how they must envy us humans”

Less - Andrew Sean Greer

“She told me she met the love of her life,” Zohra says at last, still staring out the window. “You read poems about it, you hear stories about it, you hear Sicilians talk about being struck by lightning. We know there’s no love of your life. Love isn’t terrifying like that. It’s walking the fucking dog so the other one can sleep in, it’s doing taxes, it’s cleaning the bathroom without hard feelings. It’s having an ally in life. It’s not fire, it’s not lightning. It’s what she always had with me. Isn’t it? But what if she’s right, Arthur? What if the Sicilians are right? That it’s this earth-shattering thing she felt? Something I’ve never felt. Have you?”

Fish In Exile - Vi Khi Nao

Are we made of mud and sand? If we are made of sand, do we burn up from the inside rather quickly, like a kiln? Or do we emerge from the kiln like glass jars? We must be made of sand; it is the only way to rationalize how quickly our realities disintegrate.

As Meat Loves Salt - Maria McCann

“Violent love eats up what it does love, and it is mere appetite. I scribbled on the bottom of this before sending it back: I would sooner cut my own flesh than do you a hurt. You should not have tried to get between us!”

Everything is Illuminated - Jonahtan Safran Foer

(You have ghosts?) (Of course I have ghosts.) (What are your ghosts like?) (They are on the insides of the lids of my eyes.) (This is also where my ghosts reside.) (You have ghosts?) (Of course I have ghosts.) (But you are a child.) (I am not a child.) (But you have not known love.) (These are my ghosts, the spaces amid love.)

On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous - Ocean Vuong

“I am writing you from inside a body that used to be yours. Which is to say, I am writing as a son.”

The Seas - Samantha Hunt

He tears through the dictionary searching for the word that means- n. a region of deep sea so dark that the creatures who dwell there have little or no pigment ‘It was here,’ he says. 'Someone took it,’ he says, and looks at my mother and me with suspicion, mostly me. I try not to meet his gaze but he’s a tough old man, my father’s father, and he can stare me for a long time. Eventually I have to look away. I walk over to the screen door and let the kitty cat inside. I was thirsty. It was just floating there. And anyway, that word is mine.

i think everyone i would have tagged got tagged anyways

[onereallygoodlambonastick]

18 & 19!

18. What writers have inspired you with their use of language? What are some of your favorite quotes?

Muckraker is my all-time favorite writer. After I read their CG fics I felt so consumed with envy and was so flattened by their writing I couldn’t even stand to look at what I’d done. Look: 

Hurt was a curious thing, deeply sewn into heartwood and the mythical fabric of the soul. This was the source of ancient prayer and desperation. (Synapses, all. The heart is no center of emotion, no anchor of the self. It is a muscle, an ugly snarl of bloody tissue. But it beats with the rhythm of the earth. And this burden, this hard knot of anonymous weight, crushes not the mind, not the throat, not the guts, but rather--) But hurt cries for healing, and humans must believe in the potential for healing, or else there is no hope.

Lise wrote the line that left me for dead:

Saving the world. It's so grandiose, so cliché. Nothing less for Lelouch. No little goals for him, no step-by-steps or a little-at-a-times. For Lelouch it's always been grandeur and flash and a vision so grand that it hardly even makes sense. For Lelouch, it is the world or nothing.

Sharon Olds shakes me to my core with this poem:

I want to go up to them there in the late May sunlight and say it, her hungry pretty face turning to me,   her pitiful beautiful untouched body, his arrogant handsome face turning to me,   his pitiful beautiful untouched body,  

but I don’t do it. I want to live. I   take them up like the male and female   paper dolls and bang them together   at the hips, like chips of flint, as if to   strike sparks from them, 

@inkskinned has so so many little tidbits that i love. i always come out their work feeling revitalized somehow.

Vi Khi Nao in Fish in Exile is a spectacle to behold; the pages don’t hold words, they hold images. One thing that I still remember is how the main protag described the child, Helios, as “three coffee tables tall” and how he told her that “the inside of a geode looks like scraped knees”......

19) “For fans of ______!” What works would you say are similar to yours?

Um? I’m not sure really. Every piece I read always carries its own weight so I don’t find myself asking myself what fics read like mine. IDK srry

[uglyducklingpresse]

Vi Khi Nao on Rachel Levitsky’s Neighbor

I love this book. I read it in Brooklyn after fallen ill from many months of travel. What I love about it - it is relentlessly refreshing and the lines, even when breaking - force me to reconsider the system of poetry and why poetry fails at times. I think poetry fails when it's expected (meaning it eats burgers with buns everyday) and I find Neighbor rivetingly unexpected. Each poem has Rachel Levitsky's voice in it, but the voice is commanding, demanding you in a sexy, provocative way, urging you to travel with her into a plane that is sonic and wry and physical and unknown. And, you let her. Guide you into language. She makes language just comedic enough that you would laugh at the totality of its political force and irony. And, she edits it just enough so you feel that you could revisit her again and again if you want to without feeling like poetry has stolen your Neighbor's dog and waiting to blame it entirely on you. And, you condemn yourself for not knowing the book sooner. The work is experimental, but not that experimental. She is playful, forces language to tease itself, to confine itself, and sways itself a little. Human irony lives here, but so is this city made of words imbued by a highly self-aware writer who is willing to structurally and choreographically spasm just at an imperfect angle so that page in which her text is written on knows that it too has a heartbeat and a human frequency as well. I only had one criticism. I wish she had made her play in this poetry collection longer - it seems like she could push it so it could push back, but perhaps we will see it in her next body of work - this extended mirage of word plays performed for the reader's pantomimic heist.

*Click here for more info, or to order a copy of Neighbor.

*

VI KHI NAO is the author of a novel, Fish in Exile (Coffee House Press, 2016), and The Old Philosopher (Nightboat Books, 2016), a poetry collection. Vi’s work includes poetry, fiction, film and cross-genre collaboration. She was the winner of 2014 Nightboat Poetry Prize and the 2016 Ronald Sukenick Innovative Fiction Contest.

[metamorphesque]

which one would you read first out of these books and which one did you enjoy the most (if you've read them - if you have any recs on books like these please share some <3 i love your content!) 1. kafka on the shore, Haruki Murakami 2. if we were villains, M. L. Rio 3. crime and punishment, Fyodor Dostoevsky 4. the picture of dorian gray, Oscar Wilde 5. on earth we're briefly beautiful, Ocean Vuong

I adore all these gems. I've enjoyed reading all of them and I believe a 5-star review was given to all, so you shall accept my refusal to put these vessels of geniality in cages of comparison. 🌼

chronological order:

The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoevsky

If We Were Villains, M. L. Rio

On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous, Ocean Vuong

Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami

recommendations:

My Dark Vanessa by Kate Elizabeth Russell

The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

When Nietzsche Wept by Irvin D. Yalom

Death with Interruptions by José Saramago

No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai

Night Sky with Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong

Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata

Fish in Exile by Vi Khi Nao

Human Acts by Han Kang

Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage by Haruki Murakami

Breasts and Eggs by Mieko Kawakami

Demian: The Story of Emil Sinclair's Youth by Hermann Hesse

Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin

A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

Deaf Republic by Ilya Kaminsky

[metamorphesque]

hiii! do you know some books or poems that have the theme like “you are as alone as i am, we are both alone without each other” line? thank you so much!

Poems

“If I Should Come Upon Your House Lonely in the West Texas Desert,” | Natalie Diaz

"Object Permanence." | Nicole Sealey

"Middle Aged Lovers," | Erica Jong

"The Quiet World," | Jeffrey McDaniel

"Morning," | Frank O’Hara

"The Sea of Silence," | Florence May Alt

"XVII (I do not love you...)," | Pablo Neruda

"for Jane," | Charles Bukowski

Books

Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë

Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, Benjamin Alire Sáenz

Fish in Exile, Vi Khi Nao

The Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller

The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera

The Girl at the Lion d'Or, Sebastian Faulks

Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë

A Little Life, Hanya Yanagihara

Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy

Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami

The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, V.E. Schwab

Giovanni's Room, James Baldwin

Find Me, André Aciman

[metamorphesque]

ques 66 and 132 for the ask game

also just want to say, I'm absolutely in love with your blog and its aesthetics <3

thank you, love

66. a book that fucked you up

Peach by Emma Glass

Fish in Exile by Vi Khi Nao

132. who is your favorite person to go to for book recs?

I usually don't ask for book recommendations.

[hotniatheron]

Thought I’d do this since my book tastes changed so much this decade

My top books (that I read) of the decade, in no particular order:

1. The Things They carried Tim O’Brien 2. Beloved - Toni Morrison (not pictured bc I let my mom borrow my copy) 3. Everything is Illuminated - Jonathan Safran Foer 4. Less - Andrew Sean Greer 5. Fish in Exile - Vi Khi Nao 6. The Association of Small Bombs - Karan Mahajan 7. The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller 8. Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe -  Benjamin Alire Sáenz 9. Kartography - Kamila Shamsie 10 Wildwood Dancing - Juliet Marillier  11. Death Watch (The Undertaker Trilogy) - Ari Berk 12. On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeos - Ocean Vuong 13. I’ll Be Gone in the Dark - Michelle McNamara

Bonus: The Percy Jackson Series by Rick Riordan because I was 14 at the start of this decade and OBSESSED

Tag Meme answers:

1) I definitely....read less and less the older I got. I used to be able to sit for hours and read. I’d read 3 books in a week. I’d read whole series in a month. But I also had less responsibilities and no job so I think that contributed. I also read more singular novels and less series.  2) I like stories about people learning how to exist with the flaws within themselves. I love odd characters and characters who never quite say what they’re thinking. I love characters who are smart and are not afraid to show it. I love characters who are kind but also self protective. I also love stories about family drama because I can relate lol. 3) I would like to read MORE OFTEN, but also examine what I read more. These days I just read and forget a lot. I want stuff to stick with me more. 4) Mr. Jonathan Safran Foer.....always manages to write in a way that sticks in my head. I think he’s influenced my writing more than anyone else. But also I read Toni Morrison in highschool and I have a very special place in my heart for her. 5) Does Black Sails count? Probably not. I’d say Gone Girl bc I didn’t really like the book but I DO like rewatching that movie, and I saw it for the first time in college with my roommate and had NO idea what it was about and I still laugh about that memory.