#linotte

[petaltexturedskies]

I shall live on dreams because reality is too cruel for me. I think I shall be the kind of person that nobody understands,

Anaïs Nin, Linotte: The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1914-1920

[mellifleurs]

The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin (1920-1923) ♡

[mournfulroses]

Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in Linotte: The Early Diary Of Anaïs Nin (1914-1920)

[linotte-miller]

I picked up the jjk character guide today, which lists Sukuna’s favorite activity as “eating” and I thought “well shit that’s pretty tragic, actually.”

Sukuna gets cranky in grocery stores. Most people wouldn’t notice because he is always some degree of cantankerous, but you notice, and perhaps that’s why he keeps you around.

Think about it—all those fluorescent lights, shining on four sets of eyes.

It confounds him, honestly—all the things people find excuses to need.

You used to make him guess the contents and purpose of each product. He hated that, and tolerated you.

“And this?”

“I don’t know, brat. Rabbits?” he says wearily.

“Cereal. What about this?”

He is always disappointed in the produce section.

“It’s a peach.”

“I know that.”

He scowls as he examines the fruit.

“It doesn’t taste the way it did a thousand years ago.”

“Hm?”

“Fruits, vegetables. All food, probably.”

“And?” You let him linger a minute, turning over the question in his head, still holding the peach in his hands. “I don’t know what you expect. You eliminate the seasons, you eliminate scarcity. There’s always a trade off, whether it’s sorcery or science, or any combination of the two.”

He shakes open the grocery bag and he hesitates.

“It grieves you.”

“That’s absurd.” He says, one set of eyes on you.

“And it still grieves you,” you press on. “I’m right. You know I’m right.”

“Fine,” he says, shoving the fruit in the bag. “Game, set, match, brat—don’t get cocky.”

You get the hell out of the store.

Yes I spend a lot of time crying in grocery stores why do you ask

[mote-historie]

Carlègle (aka Charles Émile Egli) or C.H. Roussel, Elegant lady with hat in profile (Dame élégante avec chapeau de profil), Illustration for the book Les Linottes, written by Georges Courteline, 1912.

Les Linottes: In the preface, the author describes the impetus which gave life to this novel - singular in his work - and where he returns to the childhood memories which permeate the entire book: "Of all the books that I have written , there is none who gave me more joy and sweetness in writing it than the one whose pages follow and whose each sentence, each line, each syllable is a reminder of the distant hours which were the beginnings of my life. It was in Montmartre that I lived these hours, as it seems that Montmartre and I were made for each other, from 1865 which saw me, my behind exposed to passers-by, busy patting pâtés of sand from the flat of my white wooden shovel, to 1871, a time when family life gave way for me to college life and the turbulent wandering of the street to the provincial sadnesses which were to rain down on me from 1871 to 1878, from top of Meaux Cathedral, with the hours, their halves and their quarters. » (x)

[avidex]

Pays de Sault, Aude, 18 juin 2023

Linotte mélodieuse qui manque de se vautrer.

[slobbered]

I shall live on dreams because reality is too cruel for me. I think I shall be the kind of person that nobody understands.

-- Anaïs Nin, Linotte: The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1914-1920

[bloodservility]

— Anaïs Nin, Linotte: The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1914–1920

[petaltexturedskies]

I shall never forget the way he once told me how my eyes seem to him. Oh! Little Diary, that meant so much—especially that I would be very sorry if I learned that my features, my face, are Me. What do those things matter? If he had never expressed anything except his enthusiasm for my eyes, he came close to the real Me—my emotions, my thoughts, my dreams, the things that don’t die and which are in my eyes as in a mirror—

Anaïs Nin, in a diary entry written circa June 1920 from “Linotte: The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1914–1920”

[mournfulroses]

Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in Linotte: The Early Diary Of Anaïs Nin (1914-1920)

[linotte-miller]

Pen pal Suguru, continued. You’ve never met in person, but you write to him regularly and sometimes speak over the phone. Today, you’ve sent him some pictures from your class trip. His mind is… going places.

He wants to listen, honestly, he's trying his best. But these photographs are all very distracting. This sundress, for example, has him wondering if he could tear off your clothes as easily as he tears open your letters, and whether you'd forgive him for it. He could probably make you forgive him for it.

And what are you going on about—sea snails, of all things? It's absolutely criminal that you expect him to concentrate. God, these pictures�� you must be torturing him on purpose. He ought to put them away before he gets himself into real trouble.

…He probably should, but he won't. The damage is already done.

He kicks off his slippers as he lifts his legs up onto the bed and reclines back against his pillow, taking up the full length of the mattress. He closes his eyes and listens—even if he can't follow your words, your voice envelops him like an embrace, like the tide—like the tide that rolls across your body in those pictures. He imagines watching from the shore until he can't take it, and he throws off his shirt to follow you into the water.

Alone in his room, Suguru feels himself flush. It isn't warm inside here, but he's heating up and the door is locked, so he may as well strip off his t-shirt. It makes this fantasy feel that much more real.

"Suguru?"

"I'm listening."

"You didn't hear a word I said,” you complain, in the confident tone of someone who understands just how much they are loved.

"I heard all the important ones."

“You’re so mean to me, Suguru—“

That’s right, just keep saying his name, over and over. He’ll revisit the same fantasy, the same image of you in the water—and write himself into it.

He imagines himself swimming, holding his breath as he moves beneath the surface so that he can sneak up behind you, and then comfort you when you cry out in surprise.

"You think I’m mean?” he murmurs. “How am I mean to you, tell me.”

Now he has you—at least, that's what he likes to imagine. Holding you in the warm water, murmuring as he kisses and nips at your neck. You taste like sunscreen and salt. Your hips press into his as you struggle and squirm—and this, of course, only encourages him.

"You're teasing me."

"Is that what I'm doing?"

Because you are sadly mistaken—this? This is bullshit, this is nothing.

But if you ask—and, more importantly, if you’re lucky—he can show you exactly what it means to tease.

"You know I would never do anything like that,” Suguru adds—feigning indignation, feigning innocence.

But Suguru is hardly innocent—not that you need to know that, but he hopes you do. He hopes you can hear it—how, in this moment, he is lying through his teeth, counting down all the ways he could tease you and worse, drive you wild and then deny you until you're forced to beg, to cry out and admit aloud everything you want from him, and where, and how much, and everything you are willing to give for that privilege.

[coovieilledentelle]

Si l'on entend par romantique quelqu'un qui rêve, je suis une romantique, mais je garderai le secret. Anaïs Nin- (Linotte Le premier journal d'Anaïs Nin)

[avidex]

Aude, 1er mai 2022

Linotte mélodieuse (mâle chanteur)

[89rooms]

It is like an illness: the desire to see someone, the strong, deep yearning. No, I have not explained it. I was working today, writing. My head was busy: my mind was filled with the work. Yet all the while I was conscious of a physical pain–a gnawing–as if a piece of me had been cut off. And the mind could do nothing about it. It was physical: it was in the veins, in the blood, in the skin. That is why human relationships are dangerous–because the mind has no power over them.

Anaïs Nin - diary entry, 'Linotte: The Early Diary Of Anaïs Nin (1914-1920)'

[ekman]

– Je vais vous le dire. Une fois pour toutes. Ce qui nous arrive à nous autres Français descendants de Français, c’est tout à fait dans l’ordre des choses.

– Une baisse de moral, Monsieur le Comte ?

– Tsss tsss. J’irai même plus loin, mon cher : ce qui risque d’arriver à l’humanité entière se justifie pleinement. Les Occidentaux ont complètement perdu le goût de vivre en crucifiant tout ce qui les retenait au sacré. Partout ils exhibent leurs tares et leurs vices. Ils se disent “fiers”. Tristes cloportes, incapables de réagir à la disparition programmée de leur vieille nation. Mais si ça se trouve, le processus va s’accélérer et prendre un chemin bien plus radical que l’asservissement à coups d’impôts, de normes, de flicage et de surinades. Les probabilités d’une guerre étendue à l’Est se confirment chaque jour. Décidément, ces Américains sont d’immondes salopards, et leurs vassaux ne valent pas mieux.

– Ah, vous aussi êtes inquiet de cette situation... Le fils du filleul de mon épouse qui est dans les transmissions, à un niveau que je ne puis divulguer, a prévenu ses parents d’un départ imminent à l’étranger, et pas besoin d’être grand clerc pour savoir de quelle région il parle.

– Vous voyez... Cent dix ans après la plus épouvantable catastrophe de l’histoire de ce continent, les veules crétins qui prétendent nous gouverner sont disposés à remettre le couvert. À cela près que la grosse Bertha d’aujourd’hui, si elle devait cesser de dissuader ces malades mentaux, cracherait des gigatonnes de souffle radioactif sur nos têtes de linottes. Et là, même si nos caves sont profondes, je crains que nous n’ayons le temps de vider tous les cols qui s’y trouvent.

– Ce serait fâcheux, Monsieur le Comte. Quand je pense que Monsieur le Comte votre père était parvenu à les soustraire à la connaissance de l’occupant d’avant... 

– Oh, vous savez, l’occupant d’aujourd’hui prétend ne pas boire d’alcool. Mais ça ne compte plus. Si tout cela doit péter, ils seront caramélisés ou cancérisés de la même façon. L’égalité par l’atome, quelle méchante farce !

– Vous avez raison d’en rire, Monsieur le Comte. De toutes les manières, nous n’aurions pas longtemps à pleurer.

– Je me demande qui portera le chapeau, cette fois. Les Danois, ces socialistes qui se prennent pour des vikings ? Les Polonais, ces abrutis de boutefeux ? Les Estoniens, ces acariatres acariens ? Le flamboyant inverti de l’Élysée, les fesses au chaud au dix-septième sous-sol du palais, en compagnie de son messieurs-dames ?

– Ha ha ! Quelle galerie ! C’est la magie de l’UE, Monsieur le Comte ! – Ce qui me contrarie le plus, c’est que l’atome n’a rien de sélectif. Cela nous condamne à périr avec ces ploucs. Vous rendez-vous compte ? Quel embarras que cette ultime promiscuité !

J.-M. M.

[89words]

It is like an illness: the desire to see someone, the strong, deep yearning. No, I have not explained it. I was working today, writing. My head was busy: my mind was filled with the work. Yet all the while I was conscious of a physical pain–a gnawing–as if a piece of me had been cut off. And the mind could do nothing about it. It was physical: it was in the veins, in the blood, in the skin. That is why human relationships are dangerous–because the mind has no power over them.

Anaïs Nin - diary entry featured in 'Linotte: The Early Diary Of Anaïs Nin (1914-1920)'