#lit camus speaks

[literallyalbertcamus]

As a college student who will live with her mom probably past 25, I find 21 years old Oscar nominee movie star Dominic Sessa also living with his mom very real and relatable. Truly a peoples princess

[blondephil]

rewatching because i’m not at work anymore. dan knows camus but phil knows the word “futility” instead of “futile…ness”

[amicus-noctis]

"is it better to speak or to die?" - Andre Aciman's Call Me by Your Name

[reidmotif]

Between the Books

Summary: Reader is a librarian at the library Spencer frequents while he's finishing one of his degrees. They find themselves in a precarious situation when everyone's left and they're the last two people there.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: unprotected penetrative sex, oral (f!recieving), fingering (f!recieving), themes of exhibitionism, public sex.

Word Count: 3.9 k

Masterlist

Being observant came naturally to you, almost as if it was a reflex embedded into the core of your nervous system. You’d say “hello” to a new face and as if under command, your eyes would naturally drift to the small pieces of hair on that stranger’s coat. 

Dog? Cat? Freakishly large gerbil? 

Whatever it was, you couldn’t turn it off. And that’s why when Spencer Reid caught your eye, you simply couldn’t find it in yourself to look away. 

And with time, it seemed like his actions mirrored yours.

You’d taken interest in a position at a university library for the summer. The job seemed to be a welcome change of pace from the likes of hectic summer jobs you’d go for typically in the past, a position that would mostly consist of monitoring graduate-level students who were, thankfully, much calmer than their undergrad counterparts.

 For the most part, you were right. Your days were filled with reading in an air-conditioned building, looking up titles of reference books for other students, and of course, the unexpected, yet welcomed, occurrence of Spencer Reid. 

The longer you spent at the library, the more you came to learn more about him. 

Well, as much as you could learn without actually speaking to the man. 

You’d learned his name from the library card he’d brandish when it came time to check out materials. He’d frequent books about Jean-Paul Sarte, Camus, and Nietzsche, opting to stay in the same, well-lit corner by the window every time he visited. While he could come in at any part of the day, he seemed to prefer later hours, when the library would be mostly vacant. His outfits weren’t over-the-top with formality, but he clearly wasn’t in the business of dressing casually.

 You found it attractive, honestly, how put-together he seemed. 

His return-rate on books was freakishly fast, and at one point, you’d assumed he was checking out books to read a certain page or chapter for research, and would then put it back, until you found yourself properly watching him and realized, no, he actually was just reading that fast. He could finish texts that would take almost a year to cover by seasoned professors and scholars in mere hours.

 How? You had no idea. Nevertheless, you desperately wanted to learn- to know him beyond the gazes of a library hall. 

You’d decided to try your luck at speaking to the man, noticing the three books he’d chosen all seemed to have one incredibly common theme amongst their authorship. 

“Existentialist?” You ask, trying to make your tone seem polite but still friendly. 

He blinks, as if he wasn’t expecting to be spoken to, and takes a second, his gaze meeting yours. “Sorry, what?” 

“Existentialist.” You repeat, motioning to the books you were checking out for him.  “Kierkegaard, Dostoevsky, Kafka. Your books seem to share a commonality.” 

He chuckles, realizing the meaning of your words and shakes his head. “No, no. Not an existentialist. I’d like to believe the world is better than what any of them make it out to be.” 

You smile, and nod. “I’d hope so.” Your eyebrows furrow, head tilting slightly. “Why the interest then?” There’s genuine fascination in your tone, and he seems to absolutely thrive off that, his eyes lighting up as you continue the conversation. 

“I’m completing my Masters in Philosophy.” He responds. “We’ve been doing an assignment on existentialism, hence the ridiculous amount of gloom and doom in my reading.”

 There’s a pause, before he cracks a smile, and then asks you, “Romantic?” 

You look at him in confusion. It’s your turn to not get the joke. “Sorry?” 

“Are you a romantic?” He asks. When you retain that confused look on your face, he continues. 

“You’re almost always reading some variation of a romance novel here. So far I’ve counted Austen, Bronte, and I think I saw a copy of Anna Karenina on the counter once.” 

You feel a bit of heat rise to your face, realizing that in his own way, he’d been observing you as well. In a second, the tables were turned, and the lens you often used on others was abruptly focused on you instead. 

“Well, Anna Karenina is hardly a romance, I’d argue.” You say, before nodding. “But, yeah. I guess I’d say I’m a fan of romance in novels.” 

He smiles, shaking his head. “I’m not asking you if you’re a fan of romance in novels, I’m asking you if you’re a romantic.” He says, putting emphasis on the last word, as if that was supposed to provide some grand difference to the statement. 

“Just as much as anyone else, right?” You respond, still a bit puzzled at his insistence on contrasting the syntax of his statement. 

“I see.” He says, nodding, continuing to look at you, as if he was sizing you up. “I’ll have to pick up a copy of Anna Karenina sometime then. See if it’s as much of a love story as I remember.” 

“I think you’ll find it’s absolutely not.” You reply, smiling. “I believe we have a copy of it here, as a matter of fact, if you’re actually interested.” There’s a hint of skepticism in your tone, wondering why he seemed to be taking so much regard to your conversation.

“Of course I’m actually interested. You seem passionate about the subject.” He counters, grinning. 

“I mean- yeah, I am! It’s a pretty misinterpreted book, I think.” You say. There’s a slight moment of silence, before you find yourself saying your next few words. “I’m also surprised you’re interested. I’m not always sure if it’s up everyone’s lane. Lots of people can’t get through it.” 

“I’m sure the least I can do is try.” He says, shrugging. 

You check out the last of his books, placing them in his outstretched hands. “Honestly, I’m even more surprised you noticed. You seem pretty into it in your corner over there.” You say, half-jokingly, but with a hint of seriousness mixed into it. 

He gives a softer smile, almost boyish, as he replies. 

“You’re pretty hard not to notice.” 

He keeps the smile on his face, giving you a slight nod of his head, before leaving you to deal with the sudden heat that had risen to your cheeks as a result of his words. You couldn’t find it in yourself to respond to his quick wit in the moment, your heartbeat still racing long after he’d left. 

Over that summer, the two of you get continually closer. To your absolute delight, he does end up reading Anna Karenina and better yet, he agrees with you. You immediately take an even stronger liking to him than before. Thus starts your tradition of recommending books to each other, the two of you discussing them when he’d come to the library, almost like a secret, private book club that only you two were privy to. 

You come to learn more about him. His doctorates, his job. The secret of his inhumanely fast reading was revealed to you later down the road, when he explained the abilities of an unconscious mind.. or something. While you wanted to give your undivided attention to him, there was an unspoken part of you that couldn’t help but find it ridiculously attractive when he explained things to you. He never seemed to notice that enduring part of your psyche, and you were grateful for that. 

Overall though, he made quite the friend. He shared your love of literature, and could be a wonderful listener at times. Your previous days of solitude in the library were long forgotten, and you found yourself looking forward to his daily visits, ready to share your thoughts on some book he’d last asked you to read. 

You find that his visits become less and less about the actual establishment, and more and more about you, especially when he opts to visit you at the front desk first, as opposed to over at his usual spot by the window. Somedays, he makes it obvious, not even bothering to peruse the selection of books he was previously accustomed to, and merely opts to talk to you the entire time, right up to the point where you’re locking the doors of the library and heading to your own place for the night. 

There’s a part of you that wonders why he hasn’t asked you out. You wonder why you hadn’t asked him out. It only seems natural, given how much time the two of you were spending- a date seemed like an obvious byproduct of the lingering gazes you’d catch him throw at you, the absolute joy that would bubble in your chest everytime the two of you shared an afternoon. 

You shrug it off. All in good time, right? 

It’s another night at the library, and you found yourself a bit frustrated. You’d asked your manager if there was any way she could take on the later shift of the day, increasingly tired with the hours of the job and simply needing a break from it all. She refused, and tonight, that refusal seemed to be on the forefront of your mind. 

“I just- I don’t get it, Spencer. I know she can take on this shift.” You say, wheeling around a cart of books to be reshelved, talking openly since the library was empty at this point in the day, all patrons packed up and soundly at home– while you were stuck here. 

He stayed, of course, following you around diligently as you completed the task, listening to every word.

 “I get that this is the worst shift to have, but come on. I’m a good employee, you know? I feel like I deserve a break here and there.” You come to a stop, picking up a stack of books with a huffy sigh. “But no. I’m the one who has to go home late. I’m the one who’s on closing every single night. I’m sick of it.” 

He nods sympathetically, and you continue to grovel, deeply appreciative that he was allowing you to vent to him like this. You stand on the provided step-stool on the ground, allowing you to have the height necessary to shelve some books that belonged further up than normal. 

“Like, is it really that hard?” You grumble, your face turned away from Spencer as you find each book’s proper place. “God forbid she sleeps at a later time than normal- or I don’t know, hires someone else.” The last book is reshelved, and you turn around, about to dismount the stool. “And another thing-” 

In the midst of your rant, you find yourself distracted,  missing the step on the stool that would’ve allowed a safe dismount, and you quickly realize you’re falling off, letting out a small yelp before a stronger force keeps you upright- a force that happened to be Spencer’s arms catching you. 

“You alright?” He asks with heavy concern, trying to look into your eyes or your legs, attempting to discern for signs where you might’ve hurt yourself on your descent. 

It takes a second for you to process that you are insanely close to Spencer. His features are almost enhanced by the low-lighting of the dark library, his eyes entirely dilated as he stares at you, his lips soft and perfect– and those cheekbones, god. You could practically cut yourself on them. 

You quickly return to your senses, trying to go back to a more suitable position that wouldn’t leave you so absolutely tongue tied. “No, no. I’m fine, honestly.” You step back, wiggling your leg a little. “See? Entirely fine.” 

He smiles a little sheepishly. “Sorry, I just get worried. I’m a doctor, you know.” He says, a teasing quality in his tone as he steps closer. 

“Not an actual doctor.” You say, rolling your eyes fondly. 

“Come on.” He says, letting his hand drift over back to your arm, which had taken most of the shock of falling onto him. “Humor me.” 

There’s that grin again, and you can’t help but relent. 

And so you humor him like he asked, letting his fingertips trail over the skin to properly check for any injuries, the action much more sensual than it should’ve been for a friend checking up on another friend. 

“You know.” He murmurs, his voice a bit lower than before. “I don’t actually think this is the worst shift to take on.” 

Your throat is dry, a physical reaction being drawn out of you as he touches you, and there’s a conscious reminder you actually have to respond to his words. 

“Oh? Why is that?” You force out. 

“It’s so quiet.” He mumbles out, immediately, his fingertips now tracing down to your waist, as the two of you made eye contact. “Nobody’s even in here at this point.” 

You swallow, trying to calm the rapid beat of your heart. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” 

“I like the quiet.” He says, continuing on. The previously feather-like touch on your waist becomes more grasping than anything else. “There’s just so much more you can get done when it’s quiet.” 

You nod and half heartedly mumble. “Mhm.” You’re far more focused on your growing proximity than his actual words, the act rendering you entirely breathless until he’s standing face to face with you, your breaths mingling due to the closeness. 

“I can feel your heart beating.” He mumbles. “So fast. Do I make you nervous?” 

You lick your lips and nod out of instinct, before squeezing your eyes shut and shaking your head. “No, no. It’s just the closeness. I’m not used to it.” You whisper, eyes opening– and his gaze is as intense as ever. 

One of his hands goes to cup your face. “Unless you tell me otherwise, I’m going to kiss you now.” 

You don’t move a single muscle. 

And then all of a sudden, he’s everywhere. He’s pulling you closer, absolutely devouring you like he’s been starved for your touch all along. His tongue slips into your mouth, and you respond in approval, humming with a deep content against his lips, your hands going to wrap around his neck, pulling your bodies flush together. You don’t want space– not now, or ever again. 

“Fuck. Wanted this for so long.” He mumbles, as soon as he breaks off the kiss, finding the pulse point on your neck, and going at it with his lips, causing you to quietly moan out in pleasure. You’d never heard him curse before, and the act only served to add to the steadily growing throb in between your legs. 

He pushes you even more insistently up against the counter attached to the bookshelves, your weight slightly more supported by the wood, as opposed to his body like before. 

“You’re so pretty.” He breathes out in between his assault on your neck, his mouth finding every inch of your nape, and marking it as his own. It’s almost like he’s hellbent on mapping out every plane of skin there, committing every spot that makes you whine or let out his name to memory.

You’re breathing so heavily, and you think it can’t possibly get any better than this, but he proves you wrong when he abruptly gets to his knees, your eyes widening. 

“Need to taste you. Please.” 

He’s begging, like, on-his-knees, doe-eyes, broken voice- begging to eat you out. 

And how could you ever say no, what, with those pretty eyes of his, and that expression on his face that made you practically weak with need?  

“Yes.” You whisper out, and in record time, he’s undoing your jeans and underwear in one clean swoop, not even bothering to fully remove the material before his tongue is all over your cunt, lapping up the wetness that had accumulated in the past few minutes. You’re half surprised he didn’t just rip your clothing off, given the enthusiasm he was showing at this moment. 

You’re suddenly incredibly aware of where you are- your place of work, a fucking library, and Spencer Reid was buried in your thighs like a man parched, lapping up wherever he possibly can. You can hear the obscene noises of your passion, his tongue lavishing over you, before he pays special attention to your clit, wrapping his lips around the nub and sucking softly.  You cover your mouth with your free hand- grateful that the wood behind you was supporting you, because without it, you truly think you’d topple over from the sheer pleasure of it all. 

“Fuck.” You whisper, voice high-pitched as you try to hold back your noises. “Fuck. Gonna come.” You warn, legs shaking as you barreled towards your release. 

Without warning, his fingers enter your cunt, and you’re fighting back a scream. 

How long had you stared at his fingers before this? How many times had you watched them run up and down the spines of the books he read, or gestured with them constantly whilst speaking? How long had such a simple part of his body captivated you? 

How many times had you secretly wondered to yourself how they’d feel inside you?

It didn’t matter anymore. You had your answer now. Fucking amazing.

“Spencer!” You whine out, his fingers naturally reaching that soft spot inside that you often struggled to even brush against. His lips find your clit again, sucking softly and you know you’re an absolute goner. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck-” 

Before you can even voice in coherent terms how good this feels, you’re coming, the walls of your cunt spasming around his fingers as he relishes in the reaction, using the tip of his tongue to circle your clit, and slowing his fingers down as you ride out the remnants of your orgasm. He slips the digits out of you as he rises to his knees, and sucks on his fingers, one by one, practically moaning as he tastes your release.

The sight is downright sinful.

“You taste so good.” He whispers, crashing his lips against yours again, and you’re already needy again when you can taste yourself on his tongue. 

His hands drift down to his own slacks, undoing them and pulling his cock out, already dripping with precum. 

“You ready, pretty girl?” He murmurs, guiding his tip to your waiting cunt. You’ve situated yourself on the wood of the desk entirely now, needing the support for what happens next. 

You nod, and without even realizing he was already mostly there, he pushes into you entirely, and your jaw drops. Your head rests against  his shoulder, trying to accustom to feeling of him stretching you out so fucking perfectly. 

How could you ever fuck anyone else again, when he just felt so perfect for you? 

It seemed that he agreed with the sentiment, moaning softly as his free hand steadied himself by gripping onto the shelf. “You feel so fucking good.” He murmurs. “Can I move? Are you okay?” He asks, softly. 

His other hand rubs soothing circles into your hip bone, and you’re nodding, touched by his concern for you, even during such a salacious act. 

His thrusts are slow at first, still allowing you to get used to the feeling of him inside of you, before he’s truly going at it, his thick cock rubbing against your wet walls in a way that makes you feel light and full all at once. It's delectable, and you never want it to end. 

You whine, holding onto his neck, your head thrown back as you take it, feeling the books rattle around you with every hump he deals into you. You can’t even find it in yourself to care– all that matters right now is you, and him, and how fucking amazing it feels when he’s fucking you like this. 

You can feel yourself building towards another pleasurable release, before you hear the telltale click of the library door opening, effectively removing you from the moment. Fuck. The janitor. 

“Spencer, Spencer!” You whisper-shout, biting your lip. His cock doesn’t once slow inside you, and you find it hard to think when it feels that good. 

“We’re gonna be caught!” You whine out, dizzied by how you were simultaneously turned on and utterly panicked. 

“No, we won’t.” He whispers, gruffly. With your hands now around his neck, he lets his hand drop from the shelf and covers your mouth. He leans in even closer, if that’s possible, eyes dark. 

The sight makes a shiver go up your spine. 

“Stay quiet.” He murmurs, as he begins to deal slower, more deliberate thrusts into your cunt. 

“Feel that? Feel how I’m filling you up, nice and slow?” He whispers, the words barely audible, but with how close he’s standing to you, they overtake every one of your senses, and you nod desperately, eyes glistening as you feel yourself dancing on the precipice of release. 

“Shh. I know.” He murmurs. “Come for me, yeah? I know you want to. Show me how much you like my cock inside of you.” 

It's a combination of his tone, of the risk you two were facing, and the sensation of him that has you responding exactly the way he wants, and in an instant, you’re coming with a shuddering breath, holding back a loud whine, just like he asked you to. 

The feeling of your walls spasming has him releasing as well,  a warmth flooding in your deepest point. His head drops into your shoulder as he attempts to muffle his moans the best he can, and you both bask in the afterglow for a second, trying to pant as quietly as you could. 

Spencer immediately springs into action, redressing you with precision and care, guiding your underwear and jeans back up, buttoning them up for you. You’re still in a slight haze from the two orgasms he’d just given you, and when you properly come to, his slacks are back on, and he leans in for a much more chaste kiss. It leaves you with butterflies, despite everything,  and you find yourself smiling softly at him. The fondness reflected in his expression is undeniable.

“Let’s get out of here.” He murmurs, grabbing your hand and guiding you in between the shadows of the shelves, effectively keeping you both from being caught. The janitor remains clueless, as you two sneak out, giggling like teenagers as you find yourselves outside, the summer night warm and cool all at once. 

“That was..” You mumble, laughing a bit, surprised that had even happened. 

“I know. I- uh. Might’ve gotten carried away?” He says. “I usually like to do that after a date. I just-” He steps closer, cupping your cheek. “I couldn’t wait. I hope that’s okay.” He whispers. 

“More than okay.” You whisper back. 

His thumb slowly strokes over the expanse of your cheek, and he bites his lip. “Could we? Date? Try this out?” He murmurs. “I know I didn’t get much of a chance to say it back there, but I really like you.” 

You can’t help the chuckle that escapes you. This man had just been inside you, and now he was blushing and stuttering whilst he attempted to ask you out. 

“Yes.” You nod. “Let’s try this.” 

He’s got the most genuine smile on his face, and a sigh of relief  can be heard as he leans in again to kiss you, and you can’t help the smile on your face as your lips meet his, the elation in both of your bodies absolutely radiating inside and out. 

You recount your first conversation and know now, there was a difference between liking romance, and being a romantic. 

You reckon Spencer Reid could make quite a romantic out of you. 

this is uploading an hour later than i wanted it to :( but whatever. i hope you guys like this one <3 i'm trying something new! not first person pov, but "you" ? pleaseee let me know how this works for you guys! i love experimenting out with new fic methods but if it's clear this isn't working TELL MEEE so i can go back to what did work. anyway, any likes, reblogs, comments are so so so genuinely appreciated. thank you thank you thank you for reading either way <3

[therealrichardpapen]

Can I have some classic lit recs…make me feel like Henry please <3

Oh, this would be my pleasure, my dear friend!

Caligula by Albert Camus (It's a play about Caligula)

Oresteia by Aeschylus

Cicero

Coriolanus and Titus Andronicus by Shakespeare. Coriolanus speaks about men's hubris and how pridefullness brings your downfall, while Titus Andronicus, well, I'll let you discover it by yourself:))

Marcus Aurelius, amazing works regarding stoicism

Seneca, letters to Lucilius, another great stoic

Petrarca's letters to classical authors

Ovid, the roman writer exiled by Augustus to the Black Sea, at Tomis, part of the Kingdom of Thrace (now Constanța, Romania), where he kept writing.

Bacchae by Euripides

Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz (a nobel awarded historical fiction about the life in Nero's Rome, written by a Polish writer)

Sappho, but I suggest finding a good translation with footnotes as her works have been barely maintained, and some of her poems are literally one word long.

Beyond good and evil by Nietzsche

Crime and Punishment by Dostoievsky (I won't add more as I recently conducted a full ass campaign here on how and why this book is worth it)

E.M. Cioran, A short history of decay, The demiurge, The troubles with being born. He is a bit of a nihilist. Romanian philosopher that wrote mostly in French

Machiavelli, The prince. This should be a good introduction into Machiavellism

The sacred and profane by M. Eliade is also worth a try

I believe there's no point in mentioning the Iliad and the Odyssey since everybody knows them by now. Hope you'll have fun!

Updated ~ with memes

Upon finishing my first year of uni and starting the second, there are more titles that could be added to the list:

The symposium by Plato (the og talk about the Androgynous, love. Beloved Alcibiades)

The Frogs by Aristophanes (comedy mostly)

Daphnis and Chloe by Longus (amazing, full of symbols short novella on the bucolic world of ancient Greece)

Dante. If you genuinely want trauma and pain and to be lost in documents trying to understand Dante's times/politics of Florence, do try it. Its full of religious substrata due to the century Dante lived in. If you want a counter, ridiculing the medieval mindset of "god is everything", I recommend The Decameron since Boccaccio takes it all and creates funny, unhinged and decadent stories.

Voltaire's Candide or The Optimist is more of a philosophical work, Voltaire being clearly influenced by the illuminist current. (Not specifically something henry would read, but it would definitely make you feel closer to the TSH aesthetic)

Russian lit. Again, not Henry vibe exactly, but deep enough and very insane vibes. Crime and Punishment if you want yearning, self guilt and inner struggles.

Gogol's Overcoat and The Nose if you want some Russian surrealism.

[ihateapbiology]

the first page

It was hard to balance- a coffee from the bookstore’s cafe, two books, your phone and your car keys but you were making it work. That was until you turned too sharp of a corner and collided head on with this brunette woman. “Shit I’m sorry” you both say at the time.

She smiles up at you as she goes to pick up the books you dropped “no it was totally my bad.”

You smile back “nah I’m just so clumsy and overestimated how much was practical to carry.”

She looks at your book selection and you suddenly feel self conscious about your selections.

“Big into philosophy?” She asks raising an eyebrow.

“Well ok I don’t, I’m not one of those like pretentious assholes” you start to stutter as you take the books from her.

”No no I was just gonna say I love philosophy, and I love Camus I haven’t read The Stranger yet so you’ll have to tell me how it is” she says

“Oh cool yeah I haven’t read much of his besides Myth of Si-

You don’t even get the chance to finish before her face lights up “that book quite literally is one of my favorites ever” she beams.

By now you two have been just walking around the bookstore- she still has a hold on your keys from when she picked them up from the collision.

“So did you major in philosophy?” you ask.

She shakes her head “no no audio engineering and then uh lit I just find philosophy super interesting.”

You can’t help but notice her beautiful big eyes and how expressive her face is- but you quickly toss aside the idea that she’s into girls. “woah audio engineering that’s sick.”

This sentence is a catalyst for her speaking passionately about it for the next 10 minutes with you only briefly cutting in. Most of the things go over your head but the way she speaks is so captivating it makes you want to keep listening. Finally she smiles “sorry I just talked your ear off what’d you major in?”

You grin and open the door to the bookstore holding it for her as you walk out to the parking lot “no it was fun to listen to and I majored in engineering.”

She smirks “wow women in STEM-sexy.”

You blush and just laugh while internally freaking out.

She stops at a red pick up truck- “this is me.”

You smile to yourself about the truck “you are just full of surprises- oh wait! I think you still have my keys.”

She laughs “oh shit I totally forget here are yours” she hands them to you and then pulls out hers from her jeans pocket “and here are mine.”

You blink twice plainly seeing the lesbian flag colors on the lanyard. You laugh to yourself and think “well I’ll be damned.”

She catches it “whatcha laughin at.”

You take a deep breath you had been working on actually not letting opportunities right in front of you fly away. And this was certainly an opportunity. “Well it’s just..I…your lanyard I like it..”

She grins like a fool catching what you meant. “Oh do you now?”

You smirk “yeah the colors are quite nice.”

She nods “yeah I think that way too- you know I would love to see you again why don’t you give me your number and we can grab lunch soon.”

Your jaw drops at her straightforwardness “yes yeah me too” you give her your number.

She smiles and types it in “what should the contact name be for you?”

You realize yall hadn’t even exchanged names “oh uh y/n and you?”

“Julien.”

You nod and walk to your car before calling “see ya soon Julien.”

[fairydrz3m]

・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜

☆–:*My intro*:–☆

It hasn’t been long since I got Tumblr, but I’ve received a lot of messages… so I’m going introduce myself 💓

My name is Hortense :) I live in France but I speak English, Spanish, Italian pretty well and I'm currently learning Russian.

I love listening to music, reading books (anything philosophical or old lit). My favorite authors are Franz Kafka, Albert Camus, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and Tolstoy ! I also enjoy watching movies and writing.

If you dm me , don’t be a creep please 💓

・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜

☆–:*movies*:–☆

Call me by your name (2017)

Speak (2004)

Young & beautiful (2013, it’s a French movie)

The beautiful person (2008, another French movie)

La haine (1995, again a French movie)

Dead poets society (1989)

Gone girl (2014)

I believe in unicorns (2014)

Priscillia (2023)

Lady bird (2017)

・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜

☆–:*Social media*:–☆

Tik tok- us3reyb (I have 684 followers)

Letterboxd- natashard

Pinterest- us3reyb

・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜

[cainhood]

                  AMARA  TSUCHIYA                CODENAME:  CICADA.

basics.

given  name.     amara  tsuchiya   (   née  camus   ). callsign.     cicada,   loud  only  in  the  summer. nickname.     amy,   give  her  some. age.     thirty-two   (   february  13,   2012   ). place  of  birth.     portland,   maine. gender  identity.     cis  woman   (   she   +   her   ). orientation.     bisexual   (   femme  lean   ). occupation.     public  security  intelligence  for  the  government   /   room  maid  at  the  nyūtō  onsen  &  resort.     former  sniper  class  special  operative   (   callsign:   cicada   )   in  task  force  155. moral  alignment.     neutral  evil. character  inspiration.     carmilla  of  styria   (   castlevania   ),   widowmaker   /   amélie  lacroix   (   overwatch   ),   samara  morgan   (   the  ring   ),   helga  sinclair   (   atlantis:   the  lost  empire   ),   delilah   (   the  bible   ),   amma  crellin   (   sharp  objects   ),   azula   (   avatar:   the  last  airbender   ),   logan  roy   (   succession   ),   susie  bannion   (   suspiria   ).

background.

your  story  begins  at  the  bottom  of  a  stairway.     there,   in  her  child  stance  lit  by  night’s  glow.     a  cluster  of  far-off  fireflies,   or  a  whining  streetlamp.     there,   in  the  poised  curve  of  her  back,   confident  down  to  the  bone  marrow.     here,   in  the  black  speck  on  her  smooth  skin  like  a  gnat  suspended  in  the  wrong  light.     glimpses  of  you,   backdropped  by  the  smoothed  brick  of  your  mother’s  first  home.     the  orphanage:   where  your  choices  encumber  someone  else,   before  they  round  back  to  you.     a  french  woman  adopts  your  mother,   and  another  gaunt  daughter.     they  grow  into  calling  each  other  sister.     just  as  the  refrain  starts.     every  pretty  one  precludes  a  clever  one,   they  would  say.     you  can’t  be  both.     the  choice  isn’t  yours.     you  are  born  to  the  pretty  one.     she  dies  before  you  reach  a  year  old.     the  bare  bones  of  a  human.     you  will  never  learn  to  ask  for  a  dead  woman’s  picture.

the  clever  one,   then,   inherits  a  pretty  one.     all  the  hushed  baby-lips,   without  the  stretch  marks.     mine,   she  dotes,   my  child.     her  belly  is  still  ripe  from  childbearing;   its  kicks  are  unimportant.     a  clever  daughter,   no  doubt,   to  match  this  pretty  one.     somewhere  in  you,   there  is  a  memory  that’s  not  quite  a  memory.     buttered  fingers  knead  into  your  doughy  neck.     your  lovely,   lovely  aunt  who  softly  coos  as  you  cry  and  cry.     tears  glass  those  eyes,   even  now,   when  she  whispers  to  you  with  her  hands  bracketing  your  nape.     for  every  gilded  sunday,   plum-dressed  and  thick-lashed,   you  will  remember  the  outskirts  of  your  siblings’  posse.     how  any  other  would  treasure  your  fresh  face,   shying  away  from  a  pinch  on  your  cherry  blossom  cheeks.     for  this  face  is  your  mother’s,   and  such  pain  wore  her  to  an  early  grave.     the  wrinkling  shadows,   still,   settle  into  your  siblings’  grins.     you  watch  them.     that  is  all  you  can  do.

in  your  isolation,   you  listen  for  your  aunt’s  silent  cues.     how  she  won’t  respond  to  mother,   no  matter  how  hard  her  children  tug  at  heart-strings  that  don’t  connect.     she  ties  them  to  a  chair,   maybe,   and  returns  to  nurse  a  cold  cup  of  tea.     they  try  to  teeth  on  mama   ––   a  screeching  baby,   instead  of  a  mewling  baby   ––   to  melt  a  name  down  their  throats,   and  into  their  fat  hearts.     a  name  that  only  they  may  speak.     your  name  is  so  dear,   they  want  to  say,   that  i  would  not  sully  you  by  saying  it.     to  her,   an  adulation.     to  them,   a  birthright.     you  are  the  one  to  see  beyond  this.     to  forget  that  she  could  be  called  mother.     her  ears  prickle,   only,   when  you  say  her  name.     helena.     the  delicacy  of  her  smile  is  relentless.     it  curves  into  her  lowered  chin.     all  that  gaze  for  you;   this  time,   that  name  will  be  yours.     and  then,   she  begins  the  quote  with  a  clicked  tongue.     almost  breathless  when  she  says,   i  wish  you  wouldn’t  call  me  that.     your  siblings  have  none  of  the  will  to  reach  for  her  hand.     regardless  of  their  mother’s  wants.     your  aunt-mother  holds  your  hand  in  the  crook  of  her  elbow.     they  watch  you.     that  is  all  they  can  do.

hedged  by  the  dark,   her  dry  hand  cups  your  cheek.     she  is  pale,   moon-faced,   and  the  shadows  drip  crimson  from  her  open  mouth.     you  know  your  lips  curls  in  the  same  way.     a  daughter  has  her  mother’s  mouth.     the  maw  possesses  no  end  nor  beginning.     there  is  only  the  blood.     anyone  who  isn’t  us  is  an  enemy,   she  will  spew,   we  are  all  that  matters.     you  were  made  to  exclude.     to  inhale  ease,   and  exhale  dread.     this  is  how  one  grows  into  a  soldier.     secluded  to  a  daughter’s  curse:   your  mother’s  blood-thirst.     the  child  of  a  fraught  house  doesn’t  realise  its  loss,   even  after  one  calls  it  a  bug’s  name.     cicada.     your  rhythm  is  for  you  alone.     heard  only  under  sunlight;   your  hum  prickles  the  rays  like  flickering  stars.     the  old  hymn  in  your  heart.     i  see,   i  want,   i  eat.

it  is  an  odd  lament,   then,   to  coalesce  with  a   ‘   they   ’   as  your  mother’s  daughter.     you  are  part  of  them.     there  is  no  more  you.     they  share  your  mud-gouged  gaze.     pull  at  the  hardened  roots  of  your  pedestal.     their  nails  will  find  your  weak  ribs,   and  the  chewy  sinews  of  your  neck.     you  already  found  theirs.     held  and  holding.     this  story  still  has  one  ending.     with  your  mother’s  fist  at  your  scruff.     at  the  base  of  a  cave,   far  deeper  than  six  feet  under.     cold  like  a  broken  skin.     the  reedy  bones  of  a  squashed  bug.     one  of  them  betrays  you,   and  you  don’t  want  your  mother.     not  at  the  end  of  your  earth’s  time.     you  don’t  come  back  wrong;   you  were  always  wrong.     a  fluttering  atrocity:   regal  in  your  lack  of  mercy.     half-god  like  a  roach,   living  long  after  humanity.     a  glutton  for  their  own  entrails.     people  are  easier  when  they  thrum  quietly.     amara  tsuchiya  knows  this.     she  sips  life’s  nectar,   and  grows  a  new  set  of  ribs.     metallic,   this  time,   flavoured  like  spilled  blood.     the  sun  will  clutch  its  eclipse;   she  will  be  quiet.

[grandhotelabyss]

If Blake and Emerson are the still-not-exhausted fountainheads of their nations' respective romanticisms, do you know who would fill that spot for the romanticisms of France (Sade-plus-Rousseau? Baudelaire? Possibly, blasphemously, Poe?) and Germany (Goethe?)

(Another way of asking this could be, where would you start an IC series on French or German lit? In an alternative universe where you're more European than Anglo-Russian in your tastes lol)

The standard literary and intellectual histories will tell you, and I'm sure they're right, that all Romanticism comes out of Rousseau, though it's consciously theorized and practiced first as Romanticism in Germany, with the Schlegels essentially inventing the concept. In theory we have to throw in Sade to explain the origin of "Dark Romanticism," but in practice, as the dream of reason produces monsters, the darkness is already there in Rousseau, in the arias of disordered passion, for example, in La Nouvelle Héloïse, the work of his I happen to know best.

My contrarian-paradoxical answer, though, an answer that seeks to go beyond literal-minded encyclopedia entries, would be the holy trinity of Dante, Shakespeare, and Cervantes, without whose influence as the creators of free forms exceeding the classical no one would have come up with Romanticism later: Dante's vernacular language and visionary-autobiographical emphasis; Shakespeare's passionate fixation on the inner life; and Cervantes's paradoxical use of irony to deepen pathos.

(I think, I say defensively, that my tastes are reasonably European. Their more recent productions, Bernhard and Sebald and the like, seem to me to be unreliable models for the writer in the New World, belonging to a different—an exhausted—phase of civilization. But among the French I love Stendhal, Balzac, Baudelaire, Camus, even Barthes. I also give a very high place to the German or German-speaking writers in particular, both in literature and philosophy, and have written with partial or total admiration for Goethe, Schiller, Hegel, Hölderlin, Nietzsche, Rilke, Kafka, Heidegger, and Mann. And Coetzee, a European writer who happens to write in English. I've even called Wings of Desire my favorite movie!)

[daimonclub]

100 super worthy quotes

100 super worthy quotes 100 super worthy quotes, another post full of great valuable quotes and aphorisms selected among the best authors ever by our chief editor Carl William Brown It is a profitable thing, if one is wise, to seem foolish. Aeschylus If there is meaning in life at all, then there must be meaning in suffering. Viktor Frankl I have never gotten over the trauma of coming into the world, I have never liked the stupidity of the universe, let alone if I will ever be able to accept my mother's death. Carl William Brown The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this is true. James Branch Cabell God is a comedian playing to an audience that is too afraid to laugh. Voltaire The man who speaks to you of sacrifice, speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master. Ayn Rand There is nothing more awful, insulting, and depressing than banality. Anton Chekhov What people commonly call fate is mostly their own stupidity. Arthur Schopenhauer I feel completely detached from any country, any group. I am a metaphysically displaced person. Emil M. Cioran In order to understand the world, one has to turn away from it on occasion. Albert Camus In such a stupid and cruel world, only imbeciles, selfish and devoid of any empathy, can find themselves at ease, also hoping to live a long time! Carl William Brown He lit a lamp in broad daylight and said, as he went about, "I am looking for a human. Diogenes of Sinope Meaningful silence is better than meaningless words. Pythagoras Man is quite insane. He wouldn't know how to create a maggot, and he creates Gods by the dozen. Michel de Montaigne

Happy people read quotes Women are the real architects of society. Harriet Beecher Stowe The closer to the truth, the better the lie, and the truth itself, when it can be used, is the best lie. Isaac Asimov Vulgus (Mundus o Populus) vult decipi, ergo decipiatur. (The world wants to be deceived, and so it is.) Latin Saying Without "ethical culture", there is no salvation for humanity. Albert Einstein You can't imagine how stupid the whole world has grown nowadays. Nikolai Gogol The price good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men. Plato One of the greatest problems of our time is that many. are schooled but few are educated. Thomas More Any idiot can face a crisis; it's this day-to-day living that wears you out. Anton Chekhov People will do anything, no matter how absurd, in order to avoid facing their own soul. One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious. Carl Jung It is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you. Arthur Conan Doyle Never interrupt your enemy, when he is making a mistake. Napoleon Bonaparte The only real goal that can have a certain value for our stupid and insignificant existence is to lose it forever. Carl William Brown When people talk listen completely. Don’t be thinking what you’re going to say. Most people never listen. Nor do they observe. Ernest Hemingway The tragedy of life is that it gives us wisdom only when it has stolen youth Will Durant Force governs the world (unfortunately!) and not knowing: therefore whoever rules it can and usually is ignorant. Vittorio Alfieri

100 worthy aphorisms Competition is the law of the jungle, but cooperation is the law of civilization. Peter Kropotkin What if culture itself is nothing but a halt, a break, a respite, in the pursuit of barbarity? Slavoj Žižek The world is full of willing people; some willing to work, the rest willing to let them. Robert Frost Doesn't surprise me that Christ our Lord preferred to live with prostitutes and sinners, seeing I go in for that myself. Johann Wolfgang Friedrich von Goethe Strong thoughts are iron nails driven in the mind, that nothing can draw out. Denis Diderot A man who does not dissent is a seed that will never grow. Bertrand Russell To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering. Friedrich Nietzsche Time and space are the stupidest, most tragic and atrocious things that can concern us. Carl William Brown Man is insatiable for power; he is infantile in his desires and, always discontented with what he has, loves only what he has not. People complain of the despotism of princes; they ought to complain of the despotism of man. Joseph de Maistre I myself must also say I believe it is true that in the end humanitarianism will triumph; only I fear that at the same time the world will be one big hospital and each person will be the other person's humane keeper. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them. Joseph Brodsky The history of the world's great leaders is often the story of human folly. Voltaire The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. Edmund Burke Be alone, that is the secret of invention: be alone, that is when ideas are born. Nikola Tesla Bad temper is its own safety valve. He who can bark does not bite. Agatha Christie The happiness of your life depends upon the quality of your thoughts. Marcus Aurelius This place is a dream. Only a sleeper considers it real. Then death comes like dawn, and you wake up laughing at what you thought was your grief. Rumi Life not lived is a disease from which one can die. Carl Gustav Jung Some people have no idea what they're doing, and a lot of them are really good at it. George Carlin The poet sees, at the same time and from a single point, what is visible to two, in isolation. Boris Pasternak

Worthy and valuable quotes Life begins on the other side of despair. Jean-Paul Sartre Wealth is the slave of a wise man. The master of a fool. Seneca A man is the sum of his misfortunes. One day you'd think misfortune would get tired but then time is your misfortune. William Faulkner To accomplish great things, we must not only act, but also dream; not only plan, but also believe. Anatole France I think the devil doesn't exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness. Fyodor Dostoevsky Death smiles at us all; all a man can do is smile back. Marcus Aurelius On the verge of death he remembered his mother who was waiting for him in the reality that does not exist and almost pleased he consoled himself. Carl William Brown Awareness of ignorance is the beginning of wisdom. Socrates Women are meant to be loved, not understood. Oscar Wilde Persons unmask their evilest qualities when they do quarrel. George Herbert A student of Buddhism tries to unlearn something daily. Alan Watts Everyone gets the experience. Some get the lesson. T. S. Eliot To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment. Ralph Waldo Emerson We are all like the bright moon, we still have our darker side. Khalil Gibran We are all born originals and die copies. Carl Gustav Jung I have a theory that the moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself. Henry Miller The high-minded man must care more for the truth than for what people think. Aristotle Bees don’t waste their time explaining to flies that honey is better than shit! Anonymous I would rather excel in the knowledge of what is excellent, than in the extent my power and possessions. Plutarch In this super sea of shit, we are all in the same boat, but those who row are always the same. Carl William Brown

Quote against warfare Artificial intelligence will be Man's most important achievement. Too bad it could be the last. Stephen Hawking Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead. Benjamin Franklin If you don't have ideas, read. If you have ideas, but can't articulate them, write. If you have ideas, and have the clarity to execute, build. Dan Koe Knowledge is no guarantee of good behavior, but ignorance is a virtual guarantee of bad behavior. Martha C. Nussbaum. When reading, we don't fall in love with the characters' appearance. We fall in love with their words, their thoughts, and their hearts. We fall in love with their souls. Anonymous The best things can only be achieved with maximum effort. Goethe Nature is busy creating absolutely unique individuals, whereas culture has invented a single mold to which all must conform. It is grotesque. U. G. Krishnamurti The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.. John Milton It is dangerous to be right in matters where established men are wrong. Voltaire What is called a reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying. Albert Camus The bad thing of war is, that it makes more evil people than it can take away. Immanuel Kant Reason connot defeat emotion, an emotion can only be displaced or overcome by a stronger emotion. Baruch Spinoza Compassion for our parents is the true sign of maturity. Anais Nin You only know me as you see me, not as I actually am. Immanuel Kant The closer to the truth, the better the lie, and the truth itself, when it can be used, is the best lie. Isaac Asimov The tragedy of life is that it gives us wisdom only when it has stolen youth Will Durant The tragedy of life is that it gives us wisdom only when it has stolen youth Will Durant The enjoyment of power inevitably corrupts the judgment of reason, and perverts its liberty. Immanuel Kant Let us not burden our remembrances With a heaviness that's gone. William Shakespeare Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains. Rousseau

Read quotes and relax The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum. Noam Chomsky Those who are right do not argue. Those who argue are not right. Lao Tzu We live for books. A sweet mission in this world dominated by disorder and decay. Umberto Eco The stupidity of people comes from having an answer for everything. Milan Kundera When I was young, I admired clever people. Now that I am old, I admire kind people. Abraham Joshua Heschel The great use of life is to spend it for something that will outlast it. William James Comprehension, inventiveness, direction, and criticism: intelligence is contained in these four words. Alfred Binet Patience is waiting. Not passively waiting. That is laziness. But to keep going when the going is hard and slow - that is patience. The two most powerful warriors are patience and time. Leo Tolstoy I am sure that if the mothers of various nations could meet, there would be no more wars. E. M. Forster Geniuses are like thunderstorms. They go against the wind, terrify people, cleanse the air. Soren Kierkegaard Books for general reading always smell badly; the odor of common people hangs about them. Friedrich Nietzsche Don’t miss these other similar posts: Wise quotes from the Ancients 100 golden quotes and aphorisms 100 wonderful quotes and aphorisms 100 admirable quotes and aphorisms 100 magnificent quotes and aphorisms 100 brilliant quotes and aphorisms 100 famous quotes and aphorisms 100 memorable quotes and aphorisms 100 excellent quotes and aphorisms 100 top great quotes and aphorisms 100 great quotes on love Great and famous philosophy quotes Quotes by authors Quotes by arguments Thoughts and reflections Essays with quotes Read the full article

[literallyalbertcamus]

I just realiced that I haven’t used this blog in so long for something other than checking the Dominic Sessa tag that this is basically just reblogs from the most real human in this fandom.

@riverdrowning please never shut up

[santanuborgohain]

Conversations in the Void

When Albert Camus Meets Samuel Beckett

Chapter One: The Meeting

The bar was a dimly lit enclave, nestled in the quiet corner of Paris where shadows danced under the soft glow of the solitary hanging lamp. Samuel Beckett and Albert Camus sat at a small round table near the back, their presence understated among the casual clatter of the evening crowd. The muted hum of conversation and the clink of glasses created a gentle backdrop for their exchange.

Beckett, with his weathered face and contemplative eyes, took a deliberate sip of his beer. The foam clung briefly to his upper lip before he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Camus, in contrast, had a more animated demeanour. His gaze was sharp, as if always searching for meaning in the chaos around him.

“So, Albert,” Beckett began, his voice deliberate, “how do you find solace in the absurd?”

Camus leaned back, swirling his glass thoughtfully. “Solace? I suppose I find it in the act of rebellion itself. Embracing the absurd is, in a way, a form of defiance against the meaninglessness of life.”

Beckett’s eyes narrowed slightly, a silent acknowledgment of the philosophical battle they were waging. “Interesting. I often feel that the search for meaning is a bit like waiting for Godot. We’re all just sitting, waiting, hoping for something that never arrives.”

A faint smile tugged at Camus’s lips. “Yes, I see that. But isn’t there a kind of freedom in acknowledging the absurd? To accept that there is no ultimate purpose, and to live anyway?”

Beckett stared into his glass, the reflection of the dim light shimmering on the surface. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s simply a form of endurance, a way to cope with the unending void.”

Camus’s chuckle was soft, but it carried a sense of understanding. “Endurance and rebellion, then. It’s all part of the same struggle.”

Beckett sighed, the weight of his words settling between them. “Yes, the struggle. It seems that’s all we have, really.”

Camus raised his glass in a gesture of camaraderie. “To the struggle, then. And to finding a way to live it out, even if we’re not sure where it’s leading us.” Beckett clinked his glass gently against Camus’s. “To the struggle.”

Chapter Two: The Void

The conversation drifted between them like the smoke from a cigarette, curling and twisting in the dim light. Beckett leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, eyes reflecting a profound weariness.

“You know,” Beckett said slowly, “there’s a certain irony in our predicament. We speak of defiance and rebellion, yet our words often seem as empty as the void we discuss.”

Camus’s expression softened, his gaze steady. “It is an irony, yes. But isn’t that precisely what makes our existence so poignant? The awareness of our condition, coupled with the refusal to succumb to it?”

Beckett nodded, the silence that followed carrying the weight of unspoken thoughts. He took another sip of his beer, letting the cool liquid briefly numb his introspection. “There’s a certain beauty in the acknowledgment of our own futility, isn’t there? In admitting that we are, at best, actors in a cosmic joke.”

Camus’s eyes lit with a spark of agreement. “Indeed. It’s in that acknowledgment that we find a form of liberation. We are free to create our own meaning, however fleeting it may be.”

Beckett considered this, the corners of his mouth twitching in a semblance of a smile. “A fleeting meaning, then. A momentary spark in the vast darkness.”

Chapter Three: The Departure

As the evening wore on, the bar’s ambiance shifted, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as the two men continued their discourse. The light grew dimmer, the conversations around them becoming more muted. Beckett and Camus remained absorbed in their exchange, as if the world outside had ceased to exist.

Eventually, Beckett rose from his seat, his movements slow and deliberate. Camus followed suit, his demeanour calm and composed.

“It seems,” Beckett said, “that we are left with little more than the companionship of our ideas and the solace we find in sharing them.”

Camus nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Companionship in the face of the absurdity, yes. Perhaps that is where we find our greatest strength.”

They walked toward the exit, the weight of their conversation lingering in the air like a delicate fog. As they stepped out into the cool night, the city’s lights flickered in the distance, a reminder of the perpetual dance between hope and despair.

Camus extended his hand. “To the journey, then.”

Beckett grasped his hand firmly. “To the journey.”

As they parted ways, each man ventured into the night, carrying with him the weight of their shared musings. The struggle, the rebellion, the fleeting moments of meaning—these would remain their constant companions as they navigated the void that lay ahead.

[mashkaroom]

Lengthy analysis of Holes, as promised!. This will include spoilers, which will be marked. Just gonna go through the book and the philosophy/themes/connections I caught onto this time around. Stuff discussed, in order: connections to Camus, on the question of children’s books, systems, cycles, and why Stanley is gay and jewish 😏

Camus:

The first and perhaps most obvious set of texts/theories it makes sense to put Holes in conversation with is the works of Albert Camus. Holes starts out with a description of the sun and the heat, which readers of the Stranger will remember are major themes there. The heat continues to be a prominent part of the story, though thematically, it functions very differently in the two books. In The Stranger it primarily represents the indifference of the universe (or at least so claim a ton of sources and I’m inclined to agree) and the lack of control we exert over our own lives while in Holes it’s basically the opposite of that. The heat and drought is implied to be a semi-divine punishment for a past injustice and, moreover, the elite adults of the camp have air conditioning and access to shade: the sun does not affect everyone equally in Holes as it does in The Stranger (though even that is debatable: I don’t think this was Camus’s intent, but it’s notable that it’s only the white englishman who’s driven to murder by the sun. This could certainly be read as critique of colonizers who cannot/refuse to coexist with the land and environment and how the indigenous population always suffers for it, but I digress). The other Camusian parallel one is immediately inclined to draw is that, of course, of Sysiphus: there’s the repetitive and seemingly meaningless act of digging holes not to mention that carrying stuff up a mountain is both thematically and plot-wise a very important part of Holes. But, once again, it is eventually revealed that both acts do carry an inherent meaning. Holes does not present the image of an uncaring universe: on the contrary, destiny and semi-divine influence plays a major role. The story may start out with a series of seemingly random and inherently meaningless events, but as the story progresses, people, actions, items, and events become increasingly imbued with meaning. In the Holes universe, one must imagine Sisyphus redeemed, not through the act of rolling the stone but by rebelling against it. I have difficulty imagining that Sachar was not thinking of Camus while writing Holes, or, at the very least, that if he encountered Camus afterwards, he must have been struck by the similarities. I don’t know if there was a specific intent in creating a story so embroiled in Camusian absurdism, especially since the target readership is (allegedly) children who almost certainly are not recognizing specific allusions to Camus, so perhaps the similarities are purely aesthetic — after all, everything that is nominally similar does play quite different thematic roles. However, I would never pass up the opportunity to talk about the myth of sisyphus and I think placing Holes in dialogue with Camus can raise some interesting questions about the nature of meaning.

Is Holes a children’s book?

Speaking, though, of the target audience, the audience for this book is in fact children. What about it makes it a children’s book makes it difficult to say: the protagonists are children (and, I would argue, it is not a coming of age story, despite the claims of one piece of lit crit about Holes in which i disagreed with almost every claim made, but i digress once more) and the writing style is fairly simple: you can read it with a second-grader’s vocabulary. Also, of course, being a children’s book doesn’t (and crucially shouldn’t!) mean that it’s lacking in depth and complexity. However, I think most thematically rich children’s books tend to be quite allegorical. The Little Prince is a good example. Holes is just way too specific for its sole market to be children. It’s either intended to be read by multiple generations at once or for child readers to return to it as an adult. It addresses themes of racism (and not just generic racism, anti-black racism in the reconstruction south), homelessness, intergenerational trauma. and the modern carceral system. These are social critiques that will probably go over most kids’ heads (certainly over mine). However, the themes of the text are not inaccessible for children. You don’t have to understand the particular history of the US criminal justice system or even that Sachar is making a comparison to anything specific to get that the system that he’s portraying is unjust. Knowing the real-world context just adds another layer to the text. Holes also has one of the hallmarks of children’s books that I really like, which is a particular type of absurdism that the child characters come up against. This always rang true to me as a kid and well into my teens, when you start understanding that your life is controlled by some set of systems, but you haven’t quite gotten what those systems are or why and how they came about. Like nowadays, I can say “we did this in elementary school because of a state law, that because of a federal law, that because of the history of puritanism, and this because we got a grant for it”, but as a kid nobody tells you these things or really even cares to explain why the rules are as they are, and the systems that govern your world, often with no small degree of violence and almost always with an inherent disregard for your agency, are ineffable and slippery, and good children’s books capture this really well (Series of Unfortunate Events is probably my favorite example of this, where a secret organization that everything is implicated in and more more tragicomic details about it get revealed until the Baudelaire children find themselves to some degree members with mixed feelings is honestly an excellent coming-of-age allegory. oh, not to mention the constant conflict with bureacracy. god that series is so good, everyone read it). Back to Holes, Sachar weaves the more fantastical ineffable elements in with real-world issues so neatly. Stanley’s family is allegedly cursed, which is why Stanley keeps having bad luck, but he also lives in systemic poverty, which is also why he keeps having bad luck. Sachar eschews neither the allegorical elements common in children’s literature nor the more direct systemic critiques more often found in YA and adult lit, and it creates a really unique vibe. I think the story really benefited from having a children’s author, and I would love to see more authors in both children’s and adult lit do this!

Systems

Speaking of the systems, this book is surprisingly radical. Like it’s full-on an abolitionist text. The law is pretty much only ever presented as adversarial, both in the story of Stanley’s present time, and in Kate and Sam’s story. It’s implied if not stated repeatedly that Stanley and the other boys are pretty much victims of circumstance and have been imprisoned pretty much for the crime of being poor. The hole-digging is shown to be cruel and bad for the boys. It’s noted that in digging the holes Stanley’s heart hardened along with his muscles. This is of course very evocative of the system of retributive justice we have in America. Additionally, Camp Greenlake’s existence can ultimately be traced back to an act of racist violence, also in close parallel with our prison system. Hole’s stance on justice is very restorative. Punishments are never shown to work: only through righting the wrongs can true justice be achieved. Moreover, Holes even gives the opportunity for redemption to a minor antagonist when [minor spoiler] Derrick Dunne, the kid who was bullying Stanley in the beginning ultimately plays a small role in helping Stanley regain his freedom [spoiler over].

Cycles

Cycles are a major theme in holes, and Sachar creates a unique temporality to support this theme. There are 3 interwoven stories: that of Stanley’s in the present date, that of Stanley’s ancestors, and that of the land that Stanley is on (though, as I will delve into later, it’s at least a little implied that Stanley is descended from the characters in that story also). The stories from the past reach in and touch the present. You can’t untangle the past from the future. Looking at this again through a social justice lens, it could be seen as fairly progressive commentary on what to do with regards to America’s past wrongs. The past cannot and will not be left in the past: it must be dealt with on an ongoing basis. Even the warden, the greatest villain of Stanley’s story has a sympathetic moment at the end where it’s revealed that she, too, is stuck in a cycle of intergenerational trauma she can’t break free from.

Stanley is gay and jewish

Ok, I will now talk about how Stanley is a queer Jew, but this entire section will be riddled with spoilers, so read the book first and then come back!

A queer Jew?? i hear you ask. You’re just projecting. Yes, 100%. However, I think that interpreting Stanley as both these things adds to the thematic richness of the text. Let’s start with the Jewish bit: it’s not explicitly stated that Stanley is Jewish, but his great-great grandfather is a nerd-boy Latvian immigrant with the last name Yelnats, and his great-grandfather was a stockbrocker, so, like, ya know. Louis Sachar is also himself Jewish, as was the director of the movie, who cast Jews in the roles of Stanley and his family (dyk Shia LaBeouf is Jewish?? i did not), so I know I’m not the only one interpreting it this way. And honestly, does it not resemble the book of exodus quite a bit? They escape what is pretty much a form of slavery and wander in the desert. Sploosh resembles the well of Miriam, and then they ascend up a mountain to the “thumb of god”, perhaps in a parallel to Moses receiving the commandments. Is this a useful way to look at the text? Who knows. But what I think we do get from reading Stanley as Jewish is a more nuanced discussion of privilege and solidarity. If Stanley and his ancestors are Jewish (or at least Jew-ish), then what placed the curse upon his family (and, we see, Madame Zeroni’s family isn’t doing so great either) is the breaking of solidarity between oppressed people. But also, the fact that you are also marginalized does not wash you of the responsibility to other marginalized groups. I don’t think Sachar intended it this way, because I think he probably would have talked about it more if he had, but I would say this book can be read as a call to the American Jewish community to take an active role in forging solidarity with other marginalized groups and actively righting the wrong you, your ancestors, and your community wrought upon them.

Now, why do I think Stanley and Zero are gay? Before I go into how it augments the text thematically, I bring to your attention this passage.

Two nights later, Stanley lay awake staring up at the star-filled sky. He was too happy to fall asleep. 

He knew he had no reason to be happy. He had heard or read somewhere that right before a person freezes to death, he suddenly feels nice and warm. He wondered if perhaps he was experiencing something like that. 

It occurred to him that he couldn't remember the last time he felt happiness. It wasn't just being sent to Camp Green Lake that had made his life miserable. Before that he'd been unhappy at school, where he had no friends, and bullies like Derrick Dunne picked on him. No one liked him, and the truth was, he didn't especially like himself. 

He liked himself now.

 He wondered if he was delirious. He looked over at Zero sleeping near him. Zero's face was lit in the starlight, and there was a flower petal in front of his nose that moved back and forth as he breathed. It reminded Stanley of something out of a cartoon. Zero breathed in, and the petal was drawn up, almost touching his nose. Zero breathed out, and the petal moved toward his chin. It stayed on Zero's face for an amazingly long time before fluttering off to the side. 

Stanley considered placing it back in front of Zero's nose, but it wouldn't be the same.

Girl, I’m sorry, that’s gay as shit! It’s such tremendous tenderness, not to mention the traditionally romantic imagery of moonlight and the flower petal. There’s also the non-romantic aspects. Stanley’s inexplicable happiness and suddenly liking himself evokes, for me, at least, the experience of coming out to yourself, of realizing who you are. Later in this chapter, Stanley contemplates running away with Zero despite the fact that it would make them lifelong outlaws. This book, remember, was written in 1998, and homosexuality was decriminalized in 2003, and the book takes place in Texas. It would have been, if anything, even more evocative of gayness when it was published. Now as to how this increases the thematic richness of the text: obviously, in carrying Hector up to the thumb, giving him water, and singing the lullaby, he redeems the wrong done by his ancestor, after which his family’s luck immediately changed. However, after Hector and Zero return to camp Greenlake, rain falls there for the first time. What was redeemed here? Remember that earlier on we learn that what caused the drought was the fact that Sam the onion man (who was black) was murdered for kissing Kate Barlow (who was white) — so what would a [post-factum wronging of that right look like? Zero, as we remember, is black while Stanley is white, so them being in a romantic relationship would be a successful interracial relationship to redeem the one Kate and Sam weren’t able to have. It’s also, as I said earlier, implied that Stanley is descended from Kate Barlow on his mother’s side: Stanley remembers seeing the other half of the lipstick tube with her initials on it in his mother’s bedroom. I’d also argue that Sam the Onion Man is implied to be descended from Madame Zeroni (chronology-wise, I think he’d be her grandson). First of all, there’s no follow-up with Madame Zeroni’s son who moved to America, and pretty much all other plot threads are followed up with in Holes. Secondly, Sam mentions water running uphill, just like Madame Zeroni does. Even without these speculations being true, Stanley and Hector being gay would redeem the land they’re on, but If they are, the parallel with the other ancestral redemption arc becomes to much to imagine it was unintentional.

So anyway, those are my thoughts on Holes, now everyone go read it!

[misfiredmonologue]

Hello, M and the nightmare of being Robert Smith’s wife

march 23, 2022

I’ve sent this blog to hardly anyone so far (hi, E, I and T!) but that doesn’t mean I intend on keeping its contents a secret. It’s searchable and readily available to those who followed the link I’ve scattered unannounced in my instagram bio, estimating it might only be found by those who know very little of me; those who search, because they are curious about a stranger. Whatever thoughts will be published from here on out though will be heavily colored by the possibility of those closest to me reading this, too.

This meta introduction doesn’t feel too sexy though, does it? Pragmatically speaking, this is an exercise in talking closer to cringe than to self-doubt and its consequence – abandoning projects before they can be seen.

(Can cringe be sexy? Yes.)

As Fabian and I were walking to Prater he didn’t ask me directly what I thought of his and M’s performance that he had just invited me to see, but it was implied in our conversation. All I said was that I would maybe write about what I thought, which at that moment was entirely true.

Then he got strapped into a seat on the ‘Black Mamba’ ride and was catapulted and twirled high above our heads with a maximum speed of 80km/h. Despite having known him for years I hadn’t fashioned him a person who spontaneously agreed to jump into an amusement park ride at night, still wearing goth boots and remnants of red lipstick. M was sitting next to him, screaming high pitched and loudly for more.

An hour before their limbs had been interlaced and tied to each other with tiny silver jewelry chains, attempting to restrain themselves from moving away from the other as much as possible. We were sitting in a neon lit white cube in an art academy building, where the breath of cliché and cringe is fixated into the walls by periodically applied coats of fresh white paint. I had suggested we move inside the space to watch the performance. Whatever the ‘bodies in space’ phrase repeated in every other artist statement grasps at, it was definitely more exiting to watch two lovers embrace and tie each other up, sitting beneath them on a cold floor, instead of the distanced approach of staring in through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that faced the dark school corridor.

Robert Smith, the man Fabian would at least consider selling a kidney for, if that meant he could meet him, wrote ‘M’ in 1980 for the second Album of The Cure titled ‘seventeen seconds’. M, of course, references the Name of the singer’s wife, Mary Poole. When googling her name, what pops up are very few and grainy 80s photos and the same televised picture of her in the audience during an award ceremony for her husband, every one of which is a slightly different shade of blue and slightly different number of pixels, countable with the bare eye. She wears the same makeup as her husband, lips red, eyes dark, yet slightly less messy and smudged, both sporting long, black, frizzled hair in most of their photos together.

A video uploaded to YouTube titled ‘Mary Poole (Robert Smith's wife) introducing The Cure's song Push on the radio in 1989’ seems to be one of the few, if not the only recording of her voice. She introduces herself as what sounds like ‘Robert’s wife’ with male radio host laughter in the background, announces the song and shakily adds ‘Robert is going to kill me, I shouldn’t be here’.

I, of course, know all this because Fabian showed me. We rarely spent time together without The Cure being at least mentioned once.

It’s not any different with M, I can only estimate how many Cure concerts Fabian has made him sit through. When I entered our living room on a Sunday morning last week though, it wasn’t Fabian who I found myself making Robert-related conversations with, but M. He was reading Camus und sighing heavily at the blatant displays of sexism in ‘A Happy Death’ by the protagonist Mersault. “One of the horny French guys?” is all I have to offer here, in terms of literature knowledge.

M sighted again, in approval, and read me a brief excerpt.

“After making love, at that moment when the heart drowses in the released body, filled only with the tender affection he might have felt for a winsome puppy, Mersault would smile at her and say, "Hello, image."”

The translation might be misguiding enough to attempt a reading, that puts a softer light on Mersault’s comment, but the french original text, "Bonjour, apparence", makes this literal image a clear one. As if the disappointment of all erotic and longing gazes and touch leaving a lover’s body right after only he cums wasn’t enough, this specimen manages to dehumanize, infantilize and then reduce his partner to her mere appearance uttering these two simple words.

Hello, image

Is also the very first line of the song ‘M’, which Robert clearly uses to address Mary. This charming man… An odd choice, and frankly, not a good look for the soft goth idol of horny teenage dreams (and not only of the 80s, as can be attested by the still very active and very young fan community!).

You'll fall in love with somebody else tonight

Soon follows Robert’s anxious address, that leaves the object of his singing tied up in his accusations and predictions. The tone here is dominated by distorted echo-y guitar sounds and an over boarding, stinging jealousy that Robert for sure wasn’t the first person to experience. But maybe one of the few to purposefully expose and repeat his teenage musings to fully packed commercial concert halls, even decades later.

A week earlier Fabian made me sit down with him and showed me various lyrics, genuinely curious what my amateurish interpretation of them might be. It’s the first time I purposefully listen to what is being said. I scrunch up my face and say bluntly ‘it must be a nightmare to be Robert Smith’s wife’.

‘M’ is playing again at Fabian’s and M’s (that being the german artist’s boyfriend, not the british singer’s wife) performance, but agency here seems differently distributed. First of all, both lovers are present and taking part in whatever is about unfold. They start off their encounter in different parts of them room. Fabian looking in from the outside, or not really looking actually and instead concentrating on writing ‘ROBERT RULES’ on the glass panel door, which makes me chuckle. Opposite is M, standing in front of meters of interlinked silver jewelry chains hanging on the wall, adorned with small handmade plastic clay and epoxy figurines, shimmering in a fleshy pink.

Between them is a symmetrical web of black latex, stretched from wall to wall, coming close to floor and ceiling. This kind of installation is a key visual and material of Fabian’s work, having embodied linguistical models and tree-like arches of academic accuracy, plucking the components of a sentence out of its context and structuring them according to analytical rhythms. I failed to ask if this specific room filling web is somehow encrypting a Cure song or, and I wouldn’t be mad at this possibility, simply exists to enhance the hot goth aesthetic and provide two bodies with a porous yet restrictive room to come closer to each other.

The tempo picks up as the next song plays. Sitting in the audience for artsy performances usually induces this very passive, docile, almost daydreaming state in me and here I also find myself following their dance-like movements for a while, that don’t read more into than the fact that two friends are deeply engaged in something they set out to do together. Feet brush up against Latex as the two begin chasing each other through - come on, let’s just call it that for the sake of pathos - their spiderweb.

Sure, one of them is M and the other one has watched every Robert Smith Interview out there and I sometimes wonder if he adopted the singer’s boyish, shy, smile in the process, but this doesn’t seem like a reenactment of any kind. All similarities of this narrative have become a dramatic and aesthetic starting point and stage for something more personal.

Fabians kneels over M and gently but assertively wraps shiny chains around their bodies, not even flinching when some of them start to rip and break.

Help yourself But tell me the words before you fade away You reveal all the secrets to remember the end And escape someday

Standing up against the wall, after having chased, caught, and tied each other up, silence follows and the room suddenly seems very bright and filled with the inevitable post-performance awkwardness. Fabian’s expression doesn’t drop when he says that it’s over now (looking at us and not at M). There was no act, the lipstick, the wild hair, the negotiating gazes and touch stay, as he instructs M where to put the remnants of his restraints; none of it was a play, only played with.

In best straight edge fashion, Cherry Soda is served to everyone, and we laugh as Fabian says that really, he only did this to make everyone sit through and listen to four The Cure songs.

Jup, that checks out, I think, pin one of the silver broken chains to my coat and follow the group into the night, to the nearby colorful blinking lights of Vienna’s Prater.

[musicallisto]

3, 5, 15 for the book asks ♥️

(because I've read next to absolutely nothing this year, I'm counting books I've read in 2020 as well - yes that's cheating but also I need some kind of pool to choose my answers from lol)

3. Favorite standalone of the year so far?

I rarely read standalones, but, excluding rereads, I'd say probably The Book Thief by Markus Zusak! Also, The Stranger by Albert Camus, but I don't know if that's what you had in mind when you said standalones (probably not)

5. Genres you avoid/tend not to enjoy?

I read very few contemporary books because I just find myself very bored with them? Especially that branch of "sick-lit" that was all the rage back in TFIOS days, where every single goddamn book under the sun was about teenagers with cancer or kids with cancer or something and like. I just always found them either a) very depressing, b) very pretentious or c) very boring. idk I'm always very underwhelmed with contemporary books? because they're like, i'll teach you the meaning of LIFE and DEATH and GRIEF and all they teach you is half-assed metaphors and insta-loves,,,, maybe I'm just heartless but I remember reading Wonder and They Both Die At The End and ... didn't really care for either? Though I've read super powerful contemporary stories (like The Hate U Give) and stuff like The Poet X sound sooo incredible (it's on my TBR), but yeah I'm just not drawn to those books.

15. How many books have you read so far this year?

Strictly speaking, I've only read 6 books in 2021, but adding the books I read in 2020, it brings the total to 26 books! yes I'm an extremely slow reader don't be mean please :(

[onthesandsofdreams]

Snowfall

Pairing: Aphrodite/Camus Rating: T Summary: It was snowing. That it wouldn’t normally be a problem, except it was summer in Greece, and Athena’s Sanctuary and its village were under a heatwave. Words: 1002 Notes: Pre-Relationship. Can be seen as AU post canon. Or a post-canon fix it.

Read @ AO3

It was snowing.

That it wouldn’t normally be a problem, except it was summer in Greece, and Athena’s Sanctuary and its village were under a heatwave. Aphrodite sighed as he watched the snow drift in gentle motion over his roses. He didn’t mind the snow, it reminded him of his birthplace and the coolness that brought with it was much preferred over the dry heat.

Aphrodite was curious though, what could possibly be causing this? He shook his head, he only knew of two people capable of doing such a thing, but one was in Japan with Athena. The other however…

The other is one temple below his.

Camus. Aphrodite sighs again, he knows that Camus would never be so remiss as to do this. Not without a reason, and he can’t think of anything he’s done to anger the Aquarius knight. No, since their rebirth, they all have been trying to do better, to be better than what they used to be. He himself has found that he enjoys the company of the others more than what he’d thought he would.

But Camus is still a mystery to him. Aphrodite has always known him to be calm, always in control and careful with his ice and snow, which is why this summer snow is perplexing. He shakes his head, decides to go and speak with Camus and try to figure it out why this is happening.

Aphrodite left his temple, making his way downwards slowly, many thoughts swirling about in his head. But his curiosity had been spiked and he knew himself enough to know that he wouldn’t be able to shake the questions he had until he spoke with Camus. It was only when he was near the Aquarius temple that he lit his cosmo, announcing himself without words. Much to his surprise, Camus found him first.

“You may cross, Aphrodite.” Camus tone was the same as always, calm and cool. “Feel free to continue your path.”

Instead, Aphrodite stopped and watched Camus. “It’s snowing in my rose garden.” He said, not feeling the need to draw it out.

Camus frowned. “Snowing?”

“Yes,” Aphrodite nodded, one corner of his lips curling upwards. “And it’s not the first time either. One morning I woke up to icicles at the entrance of my temple, there have been several occasions where snow falls at night, and some others doesn’t snow, but the air is considerably chillier, enough for me to cover myself in more blankets.”

Camus frown had deepened, a worried look marred his handsome face. “Several times?”

“Yes. I was inclined to think it was a prank by your student, but he’s been in Japan with Athena for several weeks now.” Aphrodite tilted his head. “Would you like to see it?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. I’d welcome your opinion.”

Both saints made their way to Aphrodite’s rose garden. Once there, they stood in silence while the snow kept falling, a slight white blanket covered the garden’s infamous roses. Aphrodite didn’t say anything, just kept watching as Camus watched with slightly wide eyes as snow fell.

“Forgive me,” Camus spoke so softly, that Aphrodite nearly missed it. “It seems I need to control my moods better.”

That didn’t made any sense, why would Camus’ moods produce snowfall and chill on his temple? He knew that there weren’t any hard feelings nor anger between them… oh. Aphrodite’s eyes widened and he turned, watching as a very obvious flush made its way to Camus’ fair face. “Oh.” He was only able to say, his heart had skipped a beat as he realized what it was pointing to. Not anger nor resentment, but something else entirely that was far more pleasant. “You were thinking of me,” he say, just as softly as Camus, as if he were trying not to spook him.

If anything, Camus’ blush deepened and now had made its way to his neck and ears, but he didn’t speak, his eyes fixed on the roses and the snow.

Aphrodite smiled, that interest in his person wasn’t unwelcome. Camus was terribly handsome and he was both a good saint and man. And, apparently, interested in him. He could tease, he could gloat, and perhaps he would’ve some years prior, in that previous life that almost seemed a lifetime ago, when in truth it was barely three, but he was trying to do and be better than what he was. So he let the arrogance go, he let all those old instincts of his go and he did perhaps the softest gesture he’d ever done so, kissed Camus’ cheek softly. “I’m glad.” Then he smiled softly at Camus. “I don’t mind, it reminds me of my birthplace and quite frankly, it’s lovely. Would you like to have dinner with me? Perhaps we could watch the snowfall under the moon, it promises to be a good night.” Aphrodite didn’t wait for a reply, instead, he walked back to his temple, he had after all, a dinner to plan.

What Aphrodite missed, was the soft smile that made its way to Camus’ face and the spark that lit his eyes. Camus had always strive to manage his emotions, because the ice he commanded depended on it. He would’ve never guessed, that those moments where he lowered his guard and think of that one person who had managed to catch his eye, would’ve caused this snows and ice on the temple of the man who drove him to distraction. Nor would’ve guess, that it would give him a chance with him. He turned and look to where Aphrodite had disappeared, he ought to leave himself and get ready, after all, he wanted to look nice. Let the dinner be special, that one chance to get to know Aphrodite better.

Camus lifted a hand to his cheek, he could still feel the imprint of Aphrodite’s kiss. A kiss he’d never thought he’d get. He took one last look at the roses and the snow, his smile grew.