#literary wall art

[britneyshakespeare]

they cut off my tags on that thoreau post. i wrote like much more of a rant and tumblr didnt even tell me they were cuttin it before i pressed post

[jesuisgourde]

(in which squash waxes poetic about carl barat)

lately i’ve just been thinking about carl and how incredible his love and loyalty to peter is. i mean peter’s pretty vocal about his love for carl but carl’s actions just blow me away with how strongly he must feel for peter. they always mention how they already bickering even when they first met and stuff but like the whole “throwing himself in the canal so peter will have to rescue him” is so dramatic and absurd but also such a massive display of love for someone. like you’re not going to toss yourself in a river when you can’t swim if you don’t desperately want to see that person as being dedicated to you. and all the stories about the antics they got up to together. and really you just have to look at the music video for waterloo to see how carl saw their relationship, which is just incredible and mindblowing that he saw peter as that much of a protector or comfort. and then later after the robbery like that is some incredible loyalty. your best friend steals from you and instead of getting furious you show up to pick him up from prison and hug each other and then go play a blistering show together, that’s just amazing. and even after the breakup, every time carl talks about peter or when they’re around each other during that weird time, he never seems properly angry, he just seems like he really really wants things to change but doesn’t know how to make it happen. that reunion interview with the sun is amazing because carl’s being so completely honest there about peter being someone who gets and completes him and how he misses him, which is really not something you see very often, and in carl who seemed so reticent when he was younger. and i mean christ the way he talks about peter in tanib, with so much affection. and instead of ever giving up and completely estranging himself from peter despite all the ups and downs and relapses and bad press and peter making songs being all pissed off at him directly and all that stuff, he just hung on until peter was ready to do rehab properly and then went and supported him. and peter has said now that he got properly clean this last time for carl, that carl made the effort of encouraging him to do it. it’s just amazing that it seems as though carl has never ever lost that love and loyalty for peter. and it’s amazing to look at carl’s interactions with peter onstage, too, because he just seems so eager to be hanging on to peter or leaning against him or whatever, and he’s usually the one to initiate that. lately it seems he’s the one initiating the mic shares a lot of the time too, wandering over during katie with body language that definitely says “please share with me.” and the way he looks at peter onstage it’s like he’s utterly delighted and amazed to be looking at him and have them both be happy and healthy. he clearly loves peter a lot and it seems like he’s really basking in being able to love peter without being wary of future problems. like it’s amazing and wonderful to see how much peter has changed and how happy and healthy he is but also seeing how much carl has changed is amazing too, because you look at footage from the early days and how aggressive and closed-off he seemed compared to how open and happy he seems now, it’s really nice that he’s able to be that way now. it’s just so wonderful and sweet that he’s been so loyal and solid for so long, and it must be great for him to be able to express that love now that they’re on much more stable ground.

[propaganda101]

It's so funny that the ultra intellectuals on this site are always so bitchy about ppl just having fun with stuff and not really caring about literary criticism or hyper analyzing themes bc "everything and anything means something if youre smart", but then when ppl do look into themes and motifs they're instantly like: hey actually that media is just objectively bad :/ like it's kinda awful and youre making things up to justify you liking the thing :// no it's not bad morally it's just a bit shit and cringe ://// have you considered watching something actually intellectually stimulating? :)

like dude, youre just a film bro at this point get off your high horse

[el-jayberaquit]

[swkrullimaging]

Back to Basics

In yet another site design, I’m scaling back my efforts to just the basics. After all this time it has become clear that my literary works and commercial stock imagery are what sell. Despite every effort to break into the first page with wedding and fashion photography services, there are simply too many photographers for the prime space available. Of course my extensive library of home decor and…

[cryptotheism]

A Review of The Way Of The Shadow Wolves: The Deep State And The Hijacking Of America by Steven Segal

Alleged rapist and human trafficker, cop groupie, washed-up action movie star, and personal friend to Vladimir Putin, the paradox of Steven Segal is how he manages to stick around despite being –by damn near every account– a universally unpleasant vacuum of charisma. I could go on, but I feel that no introduction of Steven would be complete without the tale of the headlock. Legends tell of Steven’s conflict with legendary martial artist and hollywood stunt coordinator “Judo” Gene Lebell. Allegedly, the two fell into an argument on the set of the film Out For Justice. The crux being Steven’s claim that he was “immune” to being choked unconscious. Allegedly, LeBell called his bluff, and put the actor in a headlock. A headlock that resulted in Steven losing consciousness, and control of his bowels. Steven denies the story. He also wrote a book.

The book is garbage, but garbage in a way that can be easily overstated. I wanted to take a page from other reviewers of this book, and call the text what it is; a fever dream of exhausting mediocrity, swaddled in delusions of grandeur. I wanted to whale on it. I wanted to denounce it like some ridiculous fire-and-brimstone preacher of internet literary criticism. But this does not capture the core, the essence of Way of the Shadow Wolves. There is a paradox at the heart of this text, a contradiction that even now I struggle to describe. Because despite everything, despite the balls-to-the-walls premise, the disastrous prose, and the buckwild plot, this book is deeply and powerfully boring. To call it a fever dream is to imply that it might be exciting. 

Some books are bad in a way that must be experienced firsthand. This is not one of those books. In a way, I feel that you’ve already read this book. You know Steven Segal. You met him in elementary school, when he told you he has “every black belt.” You met him in college when you tricked him into smoking a bag of oregano. You met him at your most recent family gathering, where you were trapped in an awkward one-sided conversation about “those people.” The bad-ness of Steven’s work is deeply familiar. 

We have our boots. We have our waders. We have our shovels. But, before we wade into the shit, there is one more thing we need to get out of the way: The Shadow Wolves are real. In 1972 the United States government agreed to the Tohono O'odham Nation’s demand that border enforcement agents patrolling their land have at least one quarter native ancestry. The result being the specialized unit of Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers known as The Shadow Wolves. In the 2020 Sonic the Hedgehog film, Dr. Eggman states that they are who trained him in the art of tracking. 

WAY OF THE SHADOW WOLVES

Let us cook Way of the Shadow Wolves from scratch. Think of every dogshit C-list action movie you’ve ever seen. Ideally, you want the trash cuts of post-9/11 hysteria marbled with ex-cia heroes and vaguely arab villains. Drop it all into a stockpot. Next, roughly dice some comic books and kung-fu movies, the more racist the better. Now add some datura, it doesn't matter if it's edible or not, because you saw a native American in a movie make something like that once and you’re totally 1/64th Cherokee. Add a whole can of Qanon and a whole can of racism. Boil until you have pacing thicker than mud. 

Way of the Shadow Wolves is a police procedural meets a spy thriller, a fast-paced action drama about elite agents on the fringes of the law who have the huge sweaty meaty balls to do what needs to be done for our country. It is Steven's attempt at the action schlock he embodies as an actor. Our hero is John Gode: Shadow Wolf. Reservation-born native American tracker, ICE agent, and Kung-Fu master. I believe he might have been described at one point. If he was, I do not care. Steven does not care. It does not matter. John Gode is Steven, and he’s the most badass dude to ever not be gay. He is: Special Agent Shaman Cop. He’s gonna beat up the deep state. That’s all you need to really need to know. In fact, it is shocking just how little you need to know about this book. 

We begin in a movie theater, where our protagonist is alone, watching the end credits of a movie about the atrocious treatment of native Americans on behalf of the united states government. When the film finally ends, John says to himself “It’s about time.” He gets up to leave. The chapter immediately ends. My compliments to the chef. A delightfully bland apéritif of a character introduction. Steven uses the essential point of first contact with our protagonist to tell us vital information like “He doesn’t like it when movies are long.” or maybe “He didn’t like this movie about the trail of tears.” It is unclear. To quote English-Albanian philosopher Dua Lipa, “Go girl, give us nothing.”

I have been dancing around the quality of the writing. It seems impossible to approach without the footing of a new paragraph, an opponent that requires full-focus, an all-out assault. It is nigh-incomprehensible. I hate comparing bad writing to drugs. It feels too easy. But there is a specific air to Way of the Shadow Wolves. There is a distinct cadence, simultaneously manic and lethargic, that comes from attempting to write while day drunk on over-prescribed amphetamines. And make no mistake, if Steven was not entranced by the muse of Too Many Uppers And Downers At The Same Time, if he wrote this thing stone sober, that is worse. Small quotes will not do the writing style justice, you must see for yourself how sentences flow into each other:

“The desperado’s mind went back in time to a small town in Mexico twelve years before, where he first met his two cohorts when they were thrown together by a tragic set of circumstances. Their parents had been gunned down by a cartel who was at war with a competing cartel for control of the area, which was a pathway to the American border near Nogales, Arizona. All three had been shepherded to a local mission where they were being cared for by the Franciscans, who were becoming overwhelmed by the growing number of children left homeless due to the rampant killings by the warring cartels . . .”

Labyrinthine. A paragraph structure that would feel more at home with Calvino, or Garcia Marquez at his most experimental, though stripped of its deft control and musicality. Segal will regularly change temporal perspective in the middle of sentences. A single run-on sentence will begin in the past, have a middle clause in the present, and then return to the past by the end. There is a downright massive cast of characters for a 200 page book. Damn near every chapter introduces three or four more names, and we are lucky if Steven describes them before discarding them entirely. This book is a slog. I find myself losing patience with Steven. 

—

Some time has passed since I began writing this review. Originally, my approach was surgical disassembly. I was going to go over the plot, summarize its anatomy, pick apart its flaws with surgical precision. But the more I cut, the more I felt as if I was the butt of a joke. I was performing an autopsy on a clown, pulling sheets of colorful rope from its gut, and the cadaver was laughing at me. 

There is a moment, about halfway through. A woman approaches John at a bar. An assassin, who later attacks John in the parking lot with karate. A furious series of crescent kicks, effortlessly blocked by John Gode, who punches her in the ribs and knocks her to the ground. Realizing that her martial arts are defeated, she draws her gun, but John Gode is too fast. He fires his own weapon before she can get the shot off, killing her instantly. “Her round went upward toward the sky as she fell backward with eyes wide open, seeing nothing.”

This scene stuck with me. It illustrates one of the critical flaws at the heart of Way of the Shadow Wolves. Nothing hurts John. Nothing even gets close. He does not struggle. He does not sweat. He does not bleed. Steven clearly intends this scene to be badass, a moment where his self-insert hero defeats a dangerous enemy without trying. This book is an action movie, but John’s untouchability makes every action scene read as a moment of profound and boring cruelty. This was not a contest of master martial artists. This was an adult kicking a child in the throat.

I find myself losing patience with Steven. I am running out of humorous ways to describe this vapid tripe. This is, in my mind, the greatest condemnation of bad writing. There is no hell lower than being boring to mock. I see myself as a sort of sommelier of the awkward and disastrous. I will be the first to tell you “Wait! Don’t throw that out! There are things to be learned!” But Steven repeatedly proves himself to be a sort of Alchemist of Shit, capable of transmuting theoretically interesting bullshit into just fucking nothing. If this book deserves credit for anything, it is its miraculous ability to squander its own premise. 

Why write this? Any of this? Steven clearly does not read. Or, if he does, he seems to subsist entirely on a diet of comic books about monkeys that do kung-fu. Why write this? At some level it all comes down to “because Steven wanted to” right? 

Right? 

But I cannot shake the feeling. To call this book masturbatory is to imply that Steven might have enjoyed it. There is a desperation to the power fantasy here. To be feared by men, desired by women, revered by all, yaddah yaddah yaddah, all the same trite excretions of blunt masculinity. But there is something else. Steven wants the same thing that every conspiracy theorist wants; a simple world. A world he can understand. Steven is exhausted, overwhelmed with a world he feels he can neither effect nor understand. I am exhausted. 

I fear my earlier allusions to expressionist novels may have been more spot on than I imagined. Way of the Shadow Wolves has a plot in the sense that Sunny-D contains fruit juice. Its presence is a formality, a ceremonial hat worn for tax purposes. The plot is there, but it is unimportant. This is not a text that can be debated with. Because within the world of the text, politics is not complex. It is not actually a web of interconnected groups, each with their own interests, rivalries, alliances, and historical contexts. Behind all of it is two things: Good guys, and bad guys. The good guys are all working together, and the bad guys are all working together. 

I find myself losing patience with Steven. I fear my earlier allusions to expressionist novels may have been more spot on than I imagined. Way of the Shadow Wolves has a plot.

John Gode finds a human tooth in the desert. It belongs to a body, a body of a woman described in lurid detail. Nearby, he meets a young native American man, a man who calls himself Sweet Tooth. The body is missing teeth, missing hands, missing feet. A trademark cartel killing. A young native American man. “I’m gonna be like, your assistant right?” A buddy cop dynamic. Meeting the task force. Tailing an ICE van full of cartel soldiers. A hostage situation. A shootout in the desert. Far away, faceless men in suits with masonic ranks plan a mass killing. Some sounded like they had Arabic accents. Freemasonry. Interrogation with a snake. The corpse was a woman. The woman was a reporter. She had the evidence on a flash drive, evidence that proved the existence of the deep state. What if its all connected? A sex scene, or almost a sex scene. A sex scene interrupted. A shootout in the desert. Kung Fu assassins at a bar. A cartel defector. A shootout in the desert. What if its all connected. They’re working with the Jihadists. The USA is already “half latino.” The government is paying the cartels to ship Jihadists north across the border. They’re well-trained and well armed. You can’t trust anyone. A terrorist defector who hears the voice of the prophet. The ghost of John’s grandfather. The sun sets over the Sonora. A shootout in the desert. They kidnapped John’s mother. Bring them the flash drive. They’re planning to bomb the casino. A shootout in the desert. The police chief was a traitor. The Catholics are in on it. Its all connected. A shootout in the desert. Assault by night. Rescuing the hostage. A knife dipped in pigs blood. A pit of vipers in the sonora. 

Steven ends a chapter with the line. “They had functioned like a well-oiled machine that had just saved two innocent lives. All lives matter. Do they not?” 

I am tired. I find myself at a neighborhood block party, trapped in a conversation I’ve had a thousand times. This time the man on the other end is a sweaty divorcee in range glasses who looks like a sunburned thumb. Last week, it was a woman with a necklace of crystals and blonde hair bleached blonder. “Haha yeah” I say, looking down at my phone. “Burgers look good this year huh?”

Thank you to my Patreon supporters who made this review possible.

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

The Alchemy

AU where Harry is the star quarterback at his college and y/n is an English major.

Based very loosely off The Alchemy by Taylor Swift

CW: Smut

Word Count: 6,871

Leaving my family to go to University was a bittersweet decision. My heart tugged at the thought of being away from them, but my passion for mastering the art of English pulled me towards my dream. My family had always been my biggest supporters and I wanted to make them proud by becoming an English professor. This meant leaving behind my comfortable life in a small suburban town in Florida to study abroad at one of the most prestigious universities. The campus was nestled in the very heart of where literary greats had once roamed and created their masterpieces. It was as if the walls exuded inspiration and creativity, urging me to chase after my dreams with even more fervor. Though I missed my family dearly, I knew that this journey would lead me to become the best version of myself and honor their unwavering support and love.

It was a whirlwind of experiences as I made my way through the unfamiliar streets. The currency conversion was a constant challenge, with every transaction feeling like a game of guesswork. And then there was the driving - on the opposite side of the road no less - which required all of my concentration to avoid any mishaps. But perhaps most daunting of all was the non-stop partying at pubs, a culture shock for someone like me who had grown up in a small town in America.

Thankfully, I was able to find a flat that was within walking distance from the school, and even luckier to have another American girl as my roommate. Mia was a sweet, bubbly girl from the middle of nowhere Kansas, embracing every aspect of British culture including the pub scene and the charming local lads.

Living with Mia meant constantly having people over, and it seemed like every night brought new faces into our home. I didn't mind too much, mostly enjoying the lively atmosphere and meeting new people. However, there were definitely some moments that tested my patience, like when one of Mia's friends named Arthur ended up getting sick and leaving his mark in our kitchen. Despite these occasional hiccups, I was grateful for this experience abroad and all the unique encounters it brought my way.

Though Mia's social butterfly nature could be trying at times, I appreciated her warm companionship in this foreign place. It was on one such night, after we had cleaned up the remnants of Arthur's ill-fated escapades, that we found ourselves cozied up with mugs of tea and watching the rain patter against the windows. 

Mia was unusually pensive as she stared out into the drizzly Manchester night. "You know," she began softly, "sometimes I wonder if I'm chasing the wrong dreams. My parents wanted me to become a doctor or lawyer, something stereotypically successful, but I just wanted adventure. Now here I am, living it up in England, but it all feels...empty, like I'm still searching for meaning."

I nodded thoughtfully, sensing the vulnerability in her words. Though Mia put on a bubbly facade, there was more depth to her than met the eye. 

"I think the great thing about being here is that we have time to figure it all out," I offered gently. "We're writing our own stories, not just following someone else's script." 

Mia smiled, some of the spark returning to her eyes. "You're right. That's exactly why I love being here with you."

As the rain continued to drum against the windows, Mia and I sat in comfortable silence for a moment, each lost in our own thoughts. Finally, Mia turned to me with a curious expression.

"Do you ever have doubts about your dreams, too?" Mia asked, her voice tinged with vulnerability.

I considered her question for a moment before responding, "All the time. Sometimes I wonder if I'm on the right path or if I'm just going through the motions."

Mia nodded understandingly, her eyes reflecting the shimmer of uncertainty. "It's scary, isn't it? The idea that we might wake up one day and realize we've been chasing a dream all along."

I placed a comforting hand on Mia's shoulder. "It is scary, but it's also part of the journey. We're allowed to question and evolve along the way."

She smiled weakly, her gaze drifting back to the rain-splattered window. "I guess that's what makes life interesting, right? The uncertainty of it all."

Our conversation was interrupted by a sudden knock on the door. Mia got up to answer it, revealing a group of our friends who had decided to brave the rainy night for an impromptu gathering.

"Come in, come in!" Mia exclaimed cheerfully, ushering everyone inside. The room quickly filled with laughter and chatter as our friends settled in.

As I looked around the group, my eyes landed on a few familiar faces who have crossed paths with me several times before. Among them was Arthur, a friendly face that always brought a sense of comfort and familiarity. As everyone piled into the room, my gaze wandered to him - Harry Styles, the renowned quarterback of our school's football team. I couldn't help but feel a tinge of excitement at being in the presence of such a well-known athlete. When I first arrived from the United States, I had assumed the term "football" referred to what we call soccer back home. But as I soon discovered, American Football was just as beloved and popular in the UK.

Harry noticed me looking his way and met my gaze. There was an intensity in his green eyes that made me quickly avert my own, focusing instead on my friend Grace who was animatedly sharing a story next to me. 

I tried to tune into her words, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the handsome footballer across the room. By all accounts, Harry was cocky, brash, and a bit of a player. And yet, I couldn't deny there was something magnetic about him. He carried himself with a self-assured swagger, his athletic frame filling out his clothes in a way that betrayed his strength. 

I scolded myself internally. Just because he's nice to look at doesn't change the fact that he seems like an arrogant jock. Still, when our eyes met again, I felt a flutter in my stomach I couldn't ignore. 

Harry said something to his friend that made the group erupt into laughter. He flashed a crooked smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. I quickly looked away once more, but the image of his smile lingered in my mind.

Get it together, I told myself sternly. Harry is off-limits. With his reputation, getting involved would only lead to trouble. I turned my focus back to Grace, pushing all thoughts of Harry's eyes, smile and broad shoulders out of my head. 

For the rest of the night, I avoided looking in Harry's direction, though I could feel his gaze on me periodically as the hours wore on. By the time people started trickling out, I felt certain I had avoided any direct interaction with the dashing footballer. 

That is, until I went to lock the door behind the last guest and found him standing there. He flashed that crooked smile again as he leaned against the door frame. "See you around, Y/N," he said, holding my gaze for a moment before disappearing into the night. I stood frozen, my heart racing as I replayed those five simple words in my head.

As I stood there in shock at Harry's unexpected presence, I couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions swirling inside me. His parting words echoed in my mind, leaving me slightly breathless and unsure of what to make of the situation. Gathering my composure, I locked the door behind him and turned to find Mia watching me with a knowing smile.

"Looks like someone caught your eye, Y/N," Mia teased, nudging me playfully. "Harry Styles, huh? Quite the charmer."

I flushed slightly at her comment, trying to brush off any implications. "Oh, come on, Mia. It's not like that," I deflected, hoping to downplay the significance of the moment.

But Mia wasn't convinced. "Sure, sure," she replied with a wink. "Just remember, not all that glitters is gold."

Her words lingered in my mind as I bid her goodnight and retreated to my room. Sitting on my bed, I couldn't shake off the image of Harry's smile or the way he had looked at me in that brief moment by the door. The conflicting thoughts swirled in my head, leaving me restless and contemplative.

The following day at school, as I made my way through the bustling halls, I noticed a familiar figure leaning against the lockers up ahead. It was Harry, his usual confident demeanor on full display as he chatted with his friends. As our eyes met briefly, he flashed a grin in my direction before turning back to his conversation.

Feeling a surge of boldness, I approached him tentatively. "Hey, Harry," I greeted him, trying to keep my tone casual despite the flutter in my stomach.

"Hey there, Y/N," he responded with a smirk, his green eyes twinkling mischievously. "Didn't think you'd show up here again so soon."

I felt my cheeks flush at his words. Clearly he was referring to my abrupt exit last night after our brief encounter at the door. I scrambled to think of a clever response. 

"Well, we do go to the same school," I pointed out, trying to keep my voice light despite the nerves I felt. 

Harry chuckled, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he regarded me with amusement. 

"True enough," he conceded. "But I got the sense you were trying to avoid me last night. Did I make you nervous?"

His bluntness took me aback. I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. Harry's eyes danced with mirth at my flustered state. 

"Cat got your tongue?" He teased. 

I took a steadying breath, determined not to let him get the best of me. "You wish," I retorted, hoping the bravado in my voice sounded more convincing than I felt. 

Harry laughed, a rich warm sound that made my knees weak. Our eyes locked and in that moment, it was like the noisy hallway melted away and there was only the two of us.

"Feisty. I like it," he murmured. Before I could respond, the warning bell rang, snapping us both back to reality. 

"See you around, Y/N," Harry said with a wink before disappearing into the swarm of students heading to class. 

My body froze in place, heart thudding against my ribs as I gazed at the infamous Harry. He exuded an undeniable air of trouble, and yet, as our charged banter replayed in my mind, I couldn't deny the adrenaline pumping through my veins. With a determined stride, I made my way to class, refusing to let this boy be the cause of my tardiness.

I took a seat in my Studies of Shakespeare class, the one subject I truly loved. The works of William Shakespeare never failed to captivate me, and if you could understand the Elizabethan lingo, his witty humor shone through brilliantly. Unfortunately, this particular teacher seemed to have a talent for draining all the life and humor out of these masterpieces.

I tried to focus as the professor droned on about the themes in Romeo and Juliet, but my mind kept wandering back to my encounter with Harry. Something about our charged banter had awakened feelings in me that I didn't quite understand. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a folded piece of paper land on my desk as if taken out of a scene from a movie. I looked around furtively before opening it. In an unfamiliar scrawling handwriting it read:

"What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun." - H

I felt a thrill run through me and quickly tucked the note into my bag before the professor could notice. So Harry was in this class too? I scanned the room subtly until I spotted him a few rows behind me. He caught my eye and gave me a roguish wink.

I turned back to the front, trying to ignore the simmering exhilaration I felt. Over the next few days, the notes kept coming during Shakespeare class, each with a quote or two from the Bard himself. They were usually cheeky and flirtatious, hinting at some blossoming rapport between us.

I found myself anticipating each one, my heart skipping a beat when I would spot a new folded note on my desk. Our eyes would meet across the room, a hidden smile just between us.

After class one day, as I gathered my things, I sensed Harry approach my desk. "So when's our study session?" he asked nonchalantly, though there was a glint of something more in his eyes. I hesitated, knowing I should keep my distance, yet unable to deny I was intrigued.

I nervously tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, trying to appear nonchalant. "Well, I don't know... I've heard you're not the most dedicated studier," I teased, giving him a playful smile.

Harry chuckled, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "Oh, but that's where you're wrong. I may not look like it, but I'm quite the Shakespeare aficionado," he replied with a grin.

I raised an eyebrow in skepticism. "Is that so? Well, I suppose we could arrange a study session... if you can prove your expertise," I challenged, a hint of challenge in my tone.

His grin widened, accepting the challenge. "Consider it done. How about we meet at the library tomorrow after school?" Harry suggested, his gaze unwavering.

I hesitated for a moment, the thrill of anticipation coursing through me. "Alright, it's a date then," I agreed, feeling a rush of excitement at the prospect of spending more time with him.

As the final bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, Harry flashed me one last grin before disappearing into the bustling hallway. My heart raced with both nervousness and exhilaration as I packed up my belongings, eager for our upcoming study session.

The following day at the library, I found myself anxiously scanning the room for Harry. My pulse quickened when I spotted him sitting at a table in the corner, a stack of Shakespearean plays spread out in front of him.

I made my way over to him, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement swirling inside me. "Ready to impress me with your Shakespeare knowledge?" I asked with a teasing smile as I took a seat across from him.

Harry flashed me a charming grin. "Just watch and learn," he said confidently, picking up a copy of Romeo and Juliet and flipping to a random page.

As he began to recite lines from the play with passion and flair, I couldn't help but be captivated by his enthusiasm. His eyes lit up as he delved into each line, bringing the centuries-old words to life in a way that was both mesmerizing and captivating.

By the time our study session ended, I found myself completely enthralled by Harry's interpretation of Shakespeare's works. As we gathered our things to leave, he turned to me with a twinkle in his eye, he knew a lot more about the works than he let on to.

Harry turned to me, “So now that I’ve shown you i’m smart, I know Shakespeare, when are you coming to one of my games?” he asked confidently.

I was taken aback by his forward invitation. Attending one of his football games felt intimate in a way that made me nervous. 

"Oh, um, I don't know..." I fumbled over my words, suddenly feeling shy. 

Harry tilted his head, giving me a crooked smile. "Come on, it'll be fun. I'll even give you a personal tour of the field afterwards," he joked. 

I bit my lip, considering it. There was no denying I felt drawn to him, despite trying to keep my distance. And the thought of seeing him command the field sent a little thrill through me. 

"Alright, I suppose I could stop by," I finally conceded, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear self-consciously. 

Harry's face lit up. "Brilliant! Our next game is on Friday. I'll leave a ticket for you at will call," he said eagerly.

I nodded, butterflies taking flight in my stomach. "Okay, yeah. I’ll see you then," I replied softly. 

Harry gave me a dazzling smile and I felt my knees go weak.

Friday night arrived and I found myself filled with nervous excitement as I made my way to the football stadium. I couldn't believe I had actually agreed to come watch Harry play. As I approached the ticket booth, I gave my name and they handed me the ticket Harry had left for me. 

I found my seat in the packed bleachers and waited anxiously for the game to start. When the players rushed onto the field, I immediately spotted Harry's mop of curly hair. He looked focused and determined as he took his position on the field. 

As the game began, I was immediately drawn in by Harry's commanding presence on the field. His movements were fluid and precise, each pass and dodge executed with passion and skill. With each successful play, the crowd erupted into thunderous cheers, mirroring my own excitement. It was impossible not to join in, jumping to my feet and cheering for Harry along with everyone else.

At halftime, Harry made his way over to the sidelines, sweat glistening on his forehead and tattooed arms, his chest heaving from exertion. As he scanned the crowd for familiar faces, his eyes locked onto mine and a wide grin spread across his face. He waved enthusiastically, causing my cheeks to flush as I shyly waved back in return. 

In the second half of the game, Harry's presence seemed to radiate even more brightly. With each touchdown he scored, his fists pumped triumphantly in the air. The crowd roared and cheered as he ripped off his helmet and hoisted it victoriously above his head, his teammates swarming around him in celebration.

As the stadium emptied out, I stayed behind with a swarm of butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I couldn't wait to see Harry once again. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he emerged from the locker room, his hair still damp from his post-game shower but his eyes shining with joy.

"So, what did you think?" he asked eagerly as he approached me.

"You were truly spectacular out there," I gushed earnestly. A wide grin stretched across Harry's face.

"Come on, let me give you that promised tour," he said playfully, offering me his arm. Laughing, I happily took it and followed him onto the empty field, my heart racing with excitement and admiration for the amazing athlete by my side.

Harry led me onto the empty stadium field, the night air crisp and cool against our skin. He pointed out spots on the grass where pivotal plays had happened, describing them with a passion that revealed his deep love for the game. 

I found myself enthralled, leaning into him as we walked, his arm solid and warm beneath my hand. When we reached the middle of the field, he turned to face me. His eyes were soft, searching my face in the dim glow of the stadium lights. 

"You know, I was afraid you wouldn't come tonight," he admitted quietly. 

I tilted my head. "Why's that?"

He shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "You never seemed to like me much before. I figured I wasn't your type."

Heat rose to my cheeks. He wasn't wrong - I'd unfairly judged him as arrogant and cocky. But tonight had shattered those assumptions. 

"I guess I realized there's more to you than meets the eye," I said softly. 

Harry's smile widened. He lifted his hand, gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. My breath caught at his touch. Slowly, he leaned in. I let my eyes fall shut in anticipation...

But suddenly, the stadium lights flickered off, plunging us into darkness. We jumped apart in surprise. 

Harry laughed. "Guess that's our cue to head out." 

He took my hand, interlacing our fingers, and led me towards the parking lot. I walked close beside him, hyper-aware of his palm pressed against mine.

As he towered over me, Harry's eyes scanned the street, searching for a car. "Where did you park?" he asked, his voice deep and smooth.

I shifted nervously on my feet, avoiding eye contact. "Oh. Uh. I didn't drive. I just live around the street," I murmured, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. The thought of navigating English roads was terrifying to me.

A warm chuckle escaped from Harry's lips as he looked back down at me. "I can drive you home, love," he offered, extending a hand towards me. His scent wafted towards me - a mix of cologne and something woodsy - and I couldn't help but feel a flutter in my stomach at his closeness.

As Harry and I walked towards his car, our hands still entwined, I felt a sense of excitement and anticipation build within me. "So, tell me more about this amazing game-winning touchdown," I teased, trying to break the silence that had fallen between us.

Harry laughed softly, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he glanced at me sideways. "Oh, you mean the one where I body-slammed the other team's runner into oblivion?" He pretended to flex his muscles playfully. "That was pretty epic, if I do say so myself."

I shook my head, feigning disbelief. "You're such a show-off," I said with a grin. "I bet you were the star of the school playground too."

Harry snorted. "Hardly. I was more of a loner growing up. Spent most of my time with my nose buried in books."

"Really?" I raised an eyebrow in surprise. "And here I thought all jocks were brain-dead."

He laughed again, his laughter echoing through the empty streets as we walked towards his car. When we finally reached it, Harry unlocked the door and gestured for me to get inside. As I slid into the passenger seat, I couldn't help but notice how perfectly he filled the driver's seat - broad shoulders tapering down to narrow hips and long legs. The image of him all sweaty and wet from a shower flashed through my mind, making my cheeks heat up again.

"So," Harry began as he started the engine and pulled out onto the road, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, "tell me more about yourself."

I felt myself blush even harder at his directness but decided to play along. "Well," I said slowly, thinking quickly. "I'm a huge bookworm too - Harry Potter is probably my favorite series ever."

Harry chuckled softly as he glanced at me briefly before looking back at the road. "I can see why you fit right in here in England then."

We drove through the quiet streets in companionable silence for a while before Harry spoke up again. "You know, you don't have to act all tough around me," he said quietly, his eyes still on the road as he slowed down at a stoplight.

I turned to face him fully now, surprised by his words. "I wasn't trying to be tough," I said defensively. "I just didn't want you to think that... well, never mind what I didn't want you to think," I muttered under my breath.

Harry's face softened into a gentle smile as he reached out to brush a strand of hair behind my ear once again - a gesture that sent shivers down my spine despite the warmth of the car interior. "It's okay," he murmured soothingly as he took my hand in his once more and squeezed gently before letting go when the light turned green again.

The rest of our drive was filled with more easy conversation punctuated by moments of awkward silence broken only by the sounds of our breathing and occasional traffic noises outside. When we finally pulled up outside my house I found myself hesitating before opening the car door knowing that this was goodbye.

Under the dim glow of the street lamp, I tentatively turned to face Harry. "Thanks for...for tonight," I stammered out, suddenly self-conscious under his intense gaze. 

His emerald eyes twinkled mysteriously as he simply nodded and began unbuckling his seatbelt. His eyes never left mine, setting off a simmering warmth between us that was hard to ignore. 

"I should probably walk you to your door," he said softly, accentuating each word with an inexplicably seductive lilt. My heart pounded in my chest as we exited the car and made our way towards my apartment.

Once at the front door, we stood facing each other in silence, the air around us thick with unspoken words and desires. I felt his strong fingers gently cradle my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. The intensity of this simple touch sent sparks racing down my spine, pooling heat in places I hadn't even known existed.

"Can I come inside?" His voice was barely a whisper but it echoed loudly in my ears.

My mind screamed caution but my body had other plans. “Yes,” I breathed out, unlocking the door and pulling him inside.

Inside, Harry's lips found mine in a searing kiss that left me breathless. His tongue teased against mine, creating a warm and delicious friction that sent shivers down my legs. As he pressed his hips against me, I could feel the unmistakable hardness growing between us. Our hands roamed freely over each other's bodies, exploring new territory and seeking pleasure through every touch.

Harry's fingers made their way to the waistband of my skirt, pulling it down over my hips and letting it fall to the ground. He lifted me up onto the edge of a nearby table, spreading my legs slightly as he stood between them. The feel of his fingers brushing against my inner thigh caused me to gasp and arch my back in anticipation.

Harry pulled back abruptly,“I’m sorry,” He started, “that was really inappropriate.”

As Harry apologized, his eyes were drawn to the hint of my arousal peeking out from between my legs. His hesitation vanished as his fingers brushed against my wetness once more, this time without pulling away. He groaned in approval and leaned forward, pressing his lips against mine once more. I craved him in the worst ways.

Our tongues tangled as he pushed me back onto the table, spreading my legs further apart. His hands found their way under my shirt, skimming over my stomach before lifting it up, exposing my bra-clad breasts. He took a deep breath, inhaling my scent and trailing his fingers lightly across one tight nipple.

"Harry," I moaned, cavinginto his touch. "Please don't stop."

He smirked wickedly down at me before pulling back slightly. In one swift motion, he yanked my shirt over my head, tossing it aside carelessly. Grabbing hold of both sides of my bra, he pulled it down too with such force that my breasts were freed from their confinement.

I gasped at the sudden rush of air hitting my sensitive nipples but before I could catch my breath, he took one of them into his mouth sucking hard while pinching the other between two fingers, teasing it mercilessly.

"Fuck," I whimpered, clawing at the table underneath me as pleasure coursed through me like lightning. The intense mix of pain and pleasure sent waves of desire crashing over me as I felt myself becoming wetter with every passing second.

Sliding one hand down towards his pants, I slowly undid the button and zipper before slipping my hand inside his boxers to grip him firmly around his growing erection. He groaned into my breast at the contact sending shivers down my spine.

"You want me to fuck you?" he whispered hoarsely against my skin leaving a trail of saliva along my collarbone as he ran his tongue upwards caressingly .

"Yes," I breathed out between parted lips unable to form complete words due to the intensity of emotions running through me. 

My heart raced as his erection throbbed in my hand. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin, mixed with the desire that seemed to emanate from him. His other hand slid down my back, over my ass cheeks, and gripped them roughly, pulling me closer against his hardness.

"Do you have any idea how fucking sexy you are? You and your little shy good girl act" he growled into my neck, nipping at the skin there softly. With one swift movement, he lifted me up onto the countertop, pushing my legs apart with his hips. His mouth trailed kisses along my jawline, down my throat, and on my breasts. 

I arched my back slightly offering myself to him more fully as he took a hungry mouthful of one of my nipples into his mouth sucking on it hard while pinching the other between his fingers causing a sharp intake of breath from me which made him smile devilishly before moving on to devour the other one.

My body trembled with anticipation as he bit my neck playfully, his rough hands sliding over my hips and ass cheeks before pulling me against him. His cock twitched against my wet core, making me whimper in want. "You like that, don't you?" he growled, his voice low and husky. "You're so fucking beautiful."

"Harry," I moaned, my voice reduced to a desperate whimper as he continued teasing me with his words and touches. "Please..."

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with our ragged breathing and the occasional moan. I could feel myself getting lost in the sensations, my body responding eagerly to his movements. His hands were everywhere, tracing over my curves and gripping me tightly as he pounded into me.

My own hands were roaming his back, digging into his flesh as I tried to hold on to something amidst the overwhelming pleasure that was coursing through me. Every inch of my body felt on fire, and I couldn't get enough.

"Fuck," he grunted, his face contorting with pleasure. "You feel so good."

I whimpered in response, unable to form any coherent words as he continued to move inside me relentlessly. My whole world had narrowed down to this moment – his body against mine, the sound of our bodies coming together in a perfect rhythm.

My mind was blissfully blank as he increased his pace, his thrusts becoming rougher and more urgent. I could feel my climax building up within me, like a fire threatening to consume me whole.

And then it hit me like a tidal wave – intense and all-consuming. My back arched off the counter as I cried out his name, my body trembling with pleasure as every nerve ending exploded with ecstasy.

He followed soon after, letting out a loud groan as he spilled himself inside me. We stayed still for a moment, trying to catch our breaths and bask in the aftermath of our passion.

But eventually reality came crashing back around us. Panic started creeping up inside me as I tried to gather my thoughts and make sense of what had just happened. 

As I lay there, my heart still pounding in my chest, he gently pulled out of me and straightened up. His eyes, dark with desire just moments ago, now softened with a mixture of tenderness and regret.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of our heavy breathing. "I shouldn't have let things go this far."

I sat up slowly, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside me – confusion, guilt, and a lingering sense of pleasure that refused to dissipate. 

"It's not just your fault," I murmured, avoiding his gaze as I tried to gather my clothes around me. "I wanted this too."

He reached out a hand to touch my arm, but hesitated before making contact.

"We should talk about this," he said finally, his tone serious. "About what it means for us."

I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his words settling between us. What had started as a moment of passion had now morphed into something more complicated, something that demanded attention and discussion.

As we dressed in silence, the air in the room felt charged with unspoken thoughts and emotions. The intensity of our physical connection lingered like a ghost between us, refusing to be ignored.

We began to gather our clothes from around the room, now tainted with the evidence of our reckless choices. Harry buried his face into his shirt before pulling it on, perhaps ruminating on what just occurred, or maybe trying to drown out the reality with the lingering scent of his cologne.

"Y/n," he started after a long silence, pulling his trousers up. His voice sounded strained, an indication that he was struggling with the right choice of words. "I... I didn't mean for this to... I mean, I like spending time with you." He sighed heavily, rubbing his face between his large palms.

I remained silent as I fastened my bra. The finality in his voice was suffocating, making it harder for me to breathe with each passing moment. I felt my heart thumping loudly in my chest – a crude reminder of the complication we had willingly dived into.

"I like you, Y/N," he said finally, his voice a hoarse whisper. The words hung in the air between us, hovering like a dense fog, obscuring any clarity that might lie beyond.

I stopped fumbling with my blouse, my fingers stilled by his confession. "Harry," I began, my voice barely audible. Fear clung to me, making my words tremble.

"I know," he cut me off before I could finish what I started. "I know we're both in different places... Me with football and you with your studies." There was a tingling silence after his statement, as if he was waiting for me to confirm or deny his declaration.

I sighed heavily, tugging at the hem of my blouse, feeling the cool fabric against my still heated skin. "It's not that simple Harry," I admitted, blinking back tears that had started to sting my eyes. "This," I motioned around the room, encompassing our discarded underwear strewn haphazardly around the room - a silent testament to the passion that had just consumed us, "this complicates things."

He ran his hand through his tousled hair and nodded solemnly. "I understand," he replied, a hint of resignation etching lines onto his face. His gaze was heavy with something akin to regret as it met mine.

My breath hitched in my throat at the intensity of his stare. I wanted desperately to reach out and ease the burden that seemed to weigh heavily on him. But reality was an insidious shadow that lurked in our midst, reminding us of the impracticality of our desires.

"I think it's better if we keep our distance for now," Harry broke the silence after what felt like an eternity. His words were like cold water dousing the fire that our bodies had kindled only moments ago.

A feeling of sudden emptiness clawed at me. His words, though probably said in goodwill, felt like a punch to my gut. I swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over.

I nodded, unable to bring myself to utter a word. He stepped towards me and for a moment I thought he would pull me into his arms one last time. But he merely extended a hand that I shook lightly, the gesture felt impersonal after the intimacy we had just shared.

Without another word, he turned and left the room. I stood still in the silence that followed, the sound of his departing footsteps echoing in my ears long after he was gone.

Mia came home later that night, oblivious to the charged atmosphere that still lingered, suffocating and heavy in the air. Her chatter about an extra credit assignment she’d completed was a stark contrast to the silence that had enveloped the room just hours ago. 

“Y/N, are you okay?” she asked suddenly, noticing my distant gaze. I gave her a weak smile in response before excusing myself to bed.

As I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, Harry's words echoed through my mind. "I think it's better if we keep our distance for now." His voice was etched into my memory, roughened by regret and something else I couldn't quite place. His face bore an expression that told me this was as hard for him as it was for me.

The next day was a blur. My classes seemed trivial compared to the turmoil swirling in my mind. My interactions with others were mechanical and flat as if I was watching myself from outside my body.

Football practice was going on when I walked past the field on my way back from the campus library. My eyes instinctively sought out Harry among the sea of players. I found him focused on his game, every muscle in his body straining as he kicked the ball towards the goalpost.

His world seemed unchanged—still revolving around football—while mine felt like it had been knocked off its axis.

The following weeks were no easier. Everywhere I went, I could feel his presence like a phantom pain - a dull ache that refused to fade away. In every conversation, every song playing in the background, every corner of campus - Harry was there.

I knew we had made a rational decision, given our circumstances. But my heart couldn't comprehend what my mind had already accepted.

Months passed and winter set in, blanketing Manchester in white. Serene and beautiful yet so melancholy it mirrored my mood perfectly. The once familiar campus looked different under the soft glow of the snow as if to mirror the change that had occurred in my life.

One evening, as I was walking back from the library, I spotted Harry sitting alone on a bench, bundled up in a thick coat, his breath misting in the frigid air. His eyes were trained on the football field, currently blanketed by snow, and his hands were tucked into his pockets, his usual energy replaced by a pensive quietness.

I hesitated, weighing my options. We hadn't spoken since that night – the night when our worlds collided and then abruptly fell apart. But something drew me towards him – an inexplicable magnetism I had been fighting for so long.

Stepping tentatively closer, I cleared my throat to announce my presence. "Harry," I said softly, trying not to startle him.

He looked up at the sound of my voice, surprise flickering across his features before they settled into guarded neutrality. "Y/N," he responded with a curt nod, but made no move to invite me to sit.

Taking a leap of faith, I lowered myself onto the bench next to him, maintaining some distance while also bracing for the icy cold through my jeans. For several minutes we sat in silence, lost in our own thoughts as we stared out at the snowy field.

"I've missed you." The words slipped out before I could stop them.

He turned toward me then, his emerald eyes soft and searching as they met mine. His lips opened as if to say something but closed again as if reconsidering his words.

"Y/N..." His voice trailed off and there was a long pause before he continued. "I’ve missed you too."

Relief washed over me at his confession but it was quickly replaced with a gnawing sadness as I realized that missing each other wasn’t enough to bridge the gap between us. Our realities were still the same - he was still the star football player with ambitions bigger than Manchester itself and I was still an English major trying to carve out a place for myself in academia.

“Do you ever think about…?” I started, swallowing hard as I tried to voice the question that had been eating at me.

“Us?” He completed my sentence, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze was heavy but he held it steady, openly showing the vulnerability he usually kept hidden beneath his star athlete facade. “All the time.”

The honesty in his confession hit me harder than I expected. We were both stuck in our respective worlds, looking at each other from afar but never truly reaching out.

I took a deep breath, feeling the biting winter air fill my lungs before exhaling slowly. “We can’t keep doing this, Harry,” I said finally, breaking the silence that had fallen between us.

He looked at me then, his gaze filled with understanding and something else I couldn't quite place. “I know,” he replied softly, his eyes never leaving mine.

The future was uncertain and full of challenges. But if there was one thing I had learnt from this whole ordeal, it was that some chances are worth taking. No matter how daunting they may seem.

[whencyclopedia]

Alexander the Great & the Burning of Persepolis

In the year 330 BCE Alexander the Great (l. 356-323 BCE) conquered the Achaemenid Persian Empire following his victory over the Persian Emperor Darius III (r. 336-330 BCE) at the Battle of Gaugamela in 331 BCE. After Darius III's defeat, Alexander marched to the Persian capital city of Persepolis and, after looting its treasures, burned the great palace and surrounding city to the ground, destroying hundreds of years' worth of religious writings and art along with the magnificent palaces and audience halls which had made Persepolis the jewel of the empire.

The City

Persepolis was known to the Persians as Parsa ('The City of the Persians'), and the name 'Persepolis' meant the same in Greek. Construction on the palace and city was initiated between 518-515 BCE by Darius I the Great (r. 522-486 BCE) who made it the capital of the Persian Empire (replacing the old capital, Pasargadae) and began to house there the greatest treasures, literary works, and works of art from across the Achaemenid Empire. The palace was greatly enhanced (as was the rest of the city) by Xerxes I (r. 486-465 BCE, son of Darius, and would be expanded upon by Xerxes I's successors, especially his son Artaxerxes I (r. 465-424 BCE), although later Persian kings would add their own embellishments.

Darius I had purposefully chosen the location of his city in a remote area, far removed from the old capital, probably in an effort to dramatically differentiate his reign from the past monarchs. Persepolis was planned as a grand celebration of Darius I's rule and the buildings and palaces, from Darius' first palace and reception hall to the later, and grander, works of his successors, were architectural masterpieces of opulence designed to inspire awe and wonder.

In the area now known as the Marv Dasht Plain (northwest of modern-day Shiraz, Iran) Darius had a grand platform-terrace constructed which was 1,345,488 square feet (125,000 square meters) big and 66 feet (20 meters) tall and on which he built his council hall, palace, and reception hall, the Apadana, featuring a 200-foot-long (60 meters) hypostyle hall with 72 columns 62 feet (19 meters) high. The columns supported a cedar roof which was further supported by cedar beams. These columns were topped by sculptures of various animals symbolizing the king's authority and power. The Apadana was designed to humble any guest and impress upon visitors the power and majesty of the Persian Empire.

Darius I died before the city was completed and Xerxes I continued his vision, building his own opulent palace on the terrace as well as the Gate of All Nations, flanked by two monumental statues of lamassu (bull-men), which led into his grand reception hall stretching 82 feet (25 meters) long, with four large columns 60 feet high (18.5 meters) supporting a cedar roof with brightly decorated walls and reliefs on the doorways. The city is described by the ancient historian Diodorus Siculus (l. 1st century BCE) as the richest in the world and other historians describe it in the same terms.

Continue reading...

[ataraxiaspainting]

Shameless.

Yan Chrollo x GN Reader.

Synopsis: Chrollo is many things; annoying, chatty, selfish, petty. Especially petty.

Warnings: Yandere themes and kidnapping.

Word Count: 700.

“Petty, much?”

The damn devil doesn’t even turn to look at you. Instead, he turns to the next chapter of his book, a book large enough to easily force you or any other ordinary person into a yearlong coma if it hits your head. His humming physically hurts your ears and almost makes their drums burst, you are sure of it. You would much rather listen to his trill sonata from a gramophone and disc that is at least five times your age.

You cannot find the stuffed animal you normally sleep with. You have been looking all day while this clone of the antichrist just sits and reads in whatever the hell that language on the dusty cover is. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had made it himself, it’s only further proof that he is just an old man on the inside. Or at least half; the other part may as well be a toddler throwing a tantrum. 

Maybe less than half, now that you think about it. That plush was a gift from Chrollo to you, after all, a symbol of how adorable you are or something else in that vein that made his face all the more punchable. The bunny made for a good pillow and could be used as a sort of wall whenever the epitome of hell lays on the bed beside you, trying to converse or cuddle with you. 

It certainly yielded better results than biting, kicking, and hitting him at least. Your knuckles and palms still sometimes hurt. Ow. His flesh is made of iron, you know it. Maybe you should dare him to get his DNA tested to ensure that he is indeed human before speaking with you again. 

You could fake an allergic reaction to automatons perhaps. Even though you were never a drama kid in school you think you can still pull it off. 

You can craft yourself an Emmy using what remains of your old art supplies, though that would require having Chrollo cut the papers and cardboard for you. You bet that if he is a robot, he will eventually use up all his battery by chatting away and then shutting down. 

“What are you, a kindergartener?” You move closer to his unholy throne, stomping with each step forward. “Stop acting like you are eight, you swindler, and give it back.”

It would be easier that way if he went unconscious because of his powerless charge. 

If you are feeling particularly sadistic you could use electric shocks on his unconscious tin can of a body until it explodes. It would be a great thing, the sound. Like fireworks, if you avoid getting stabbed by tiny slabs of hot metal.

“Kindergarteners are ages five to six.” You could picture dreaming of it now if you can go to sleep tonight. “Eight-year-olds are typically in the grades second and third.”

“So you do admit to stealing it, then. This trial has now concluded, you have been sentenced to life without parole.”

You can hear a slight chuckle that makes you want to fall down the stairs while playing jump rope. Anything to make sure you never hear it again. “You get points for effort, darling. That wasn’t a confession, I was just correcting your utterly adorable libel.”

“Don’t talk like that to your judge, you larcenist.”

“I see you have been reading the books I have given you.”

You grumble a curse under your breath as you walk a bit closer. “It is amazing what the human mind can remember from a dictionary when there is nothing better to do. I think if I ever see my literary teacher again she’d be impressed. I’d pass with flying colors if I ever had to retake her class.”

At the sight of your laid-out hand, a slight frown appears on Chrollo’s face. “Being polite never hurt anyone, you know.”

You scoff and cross your arms, not looking at him anymore. “It hurts me every time I say anything to you instead of trying to find out how to give you enough papercuts to make you internally bleed.” 

Underneath the table, you can see the rabbit plush, and crouch down to grab it.

“Take this as an act of precaution then; don’t test my limits, dear.” As soon as you look into his eyes, hugging the stuffed animal, you look away as you see what lies beneath the surface once more. 

Nothing.

[femmefatalevibe]

How do you keep up with current events and expand your knowledge?

Hi love! Here are some of the best ways/resources I've found to stay updated on current events & lifelong learning:

Subscribing to daily newsletters like DailySkimm, The Morning, and Morning Brew for current events & news updates and industry-focused newsletters to stay up-to-date in my field (for me, I subscribe to Business of Fashion's Daily Digest, Glossy POP, and Vogue/Vogue Business's newsletters)

Read publications including New York Times, Wall Street Journal, BBC, The Economist, The New Yorker, etc., and more industry-focused publications for fashion/beauty/marketing & advertising/digital strategy daily (or at least 5 days a week)

Keep and work through a reading list for the quarter. I try to read at least two self-development/psychology/health and industry/career-focused books per quarter; sometimes, I'll throw in a biography, finance, art, history, philosophy, or literary book in too for more variety/to expand my worldly knowledge

Take at least 1-2 courses and certification classes per quarter (either through Google, LinkedIn Courses or Assessments, Youtube, Masterclass, Skillshare, Udemy, etc.)

Frequently listen to TED talks on YouTube and podcasts (mainly on Spotify & Apple Podcasts)

Attend virtual panels and talks in areas of interest

Have conversations with insightful people (mentors, colleagues, and the amazing individuals I get to call my closest friends)

Hope this helps xx

[paracosmic-murdock]

mila's anthology

main masterlist <3

an anthology is a collection of literary works chosen by the compiler; it may be a collection of plays, poems, short stories, or songs excerpts by different authors.

benedict bridgerton

❁ tell me what are my words worth (series): while the other ladies have grown with the mindset of marrying and having children, you, as the daughter of a man who wanted a son, grew up being both. you learnt how to embroider, play the pianoforte, fence and manage the estate. however, there were some things that not even the duke of burgundy could do, so after he passed and you thought there was nothing left for you, you decided to move to london for a while and go to the royal academy of art. nothing was going to keep you from what you wanted, and you would do whatever it takes: you would lie to everyone, you would live to death, you would pretend to be a man. you had a plan and it would be a piece of cake for you. but again, when has something that she wants and should not do easy for a woman? especially when a man like benedict bridgerton gets in the way in more ways than one.

❁ gold rush (mini series): you have loved benedict bridgerton since you first met him, but after anthony married, he became the ton's favorite bridgerton, and now that everybody wants him, you realized you don't like a gold rush. (part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5)

❁ these colors fade for you only: one thing worse than seeing your enemy often was living under the same roof, certainly, and you and benedict suffered from that unfortunate condition. not even the eleven years you've slept separated by a thin wall only helped you overcome that hatred, you would always hate each other. or not really, because it's too definite to say something as such when a few hours could change the meaning of until the end of time. (part i) (part ii)

❁ longings locked: you were the earl of warwick's sisyphean task—your father's endless and ineffective responsibility was to tame you; but him and your brother had the perfect solution, which was to force you to marry a man that kept you caged like an exotic bird. however, the imprisonment only began to be an issue when you met certain benedict bridgerton, who inspired the fatalest fantasies of your mind... how on earth were you to leave that hedge maze, even for the littlest while, to choose you and him? (soon)

❁ the macaroons of discord: a critique about your husband's posture while he was unleashing chaos with his younger siblings over macaroons brought up the topic of parenthood, something you had failed to address during your marriage but that he knew you had certain restraints about.

francesca bridgerton

❁ i still got love for you (mini series): leaving for bath out of the sudden was the hardest thing you had had to do, not particularly because you had left your parents and home behind, but because your friendship with francesca bridgerton was ripped away from you a sudden summer morning. five years later, francesca arrived in bath for the season to practice pianoforte with her aunt winnie, and finally, you see her again after thinking you had forever lost her. how much you wanted for your love to live and beat still, how much you wanted for francesca to say so. (part one) (part two) (part three) (part four) (part five) (part six)

anthony bridgerton

❁ tarnished but so grand (series): you, your mother, and younger sisters were left to your own devices after your father's death with no one to take care or provide for you. thankfully, high society's ties were always useful, and you got an interview with none other than viscount anthony bridgerton for the job of his sister's governess. and yes, he could have expected about anything except to fall for you in such invasive, magnificently cursed manner when he was supposed to be looking for his very own wife. (soon)

matt murdock

✰ i want the devil tonight: when natasha's latest mission is to identify all of the vigilantes in new york, she shows you the file she has on your boyfriend so you can tell him about it, warn him. little did she know, the sight of matt in his old suit would awaken something deep inside you: a visceral attraction you couldn't quite contain. and you were definitely going to do something about it. (part 1) (part 2)

✰ i loved the present and i love you: your birthday isn't your favorite holiday. damn, you don't even celebrate it properly and you weren't precisely looking forward to it. however, this year you have Matt and he won't let it go unnoticed. at least you will notice.

✰ delicate: matt's midnight visits to your apartment aren't rare, so you never question them. sometimes, he wants his favorite unpaid surgeon to patch him up and do the stitches; other times, he wants your touch, your loving, your attention, and affection. now, after willingly losing his friends to his reckless fears and the terrible-friend reputation of his, he only has you: someone who likes him for him.

[balioc]

Holiday Engineering: Lamptide

OK, let's put my money where my mouth is.

Lamptide is the invented-from-scratch holiday that I actually celebrate. It has its roots in a roleplaying game that I ran some years ago with @cloakofshadow and @mirror-lock, but after the game finished, I decided that I wanted to import a modified version of the festival into real life.

And it's worked very well! Or so I posit. We've had well-attended Lamptide celebrations for a couple of years running, and not only do people show up and enjoy themselves, there's a distinctive holiday spirit. The weird rites and activities do in fact happen. Which is possibly just because my friends are good sports, but...I think we're reaching the point where some version of Lamptide might well take place without me pushing it along.

As a holiday-engineering project, it's a work-in-progress. I am still tinkering with the observances, and the pieces definitely aren't yet all in place. I don't personally have the expertise to create some of the holiday stuff I'd want to create. Moreover, the population that celebrates Lamptide is still very small, and in some ways homogeneous -- mostly childless urban professional-types -- so the holiday doesn't have the context that it would need to manifest in all the forms that I imagine for it.

But I'm proud of it. And, at the least, it provides an example of what it looks like for a holiday to be built from the ground up.

Vibe. This is where I started. (Both in the RPG and in real life, actually.) In the RPG, Lamptide is an intercalary day, and like many intercalary festivals it's a weird and occult time. In real life, of course, I do not control the calendar. But even so, Lamptide is meant to have that same feel, manifesting as a carnival of spooks and revelry. To some extent, it's meant to serve as a Halloween-like that works better for me than actual Halloween does.

And much like Halloween, in theory, its core rituals can be practiced in three different "modes" depending on context. For families with kids, it's a cutesy holiday of flamboyant fun. For older kids and adolescents, it's a holiday of mischief and boundary-pushing (in a way that is, I hope, less obnoxious than the adolescent version of Halloween). For independent adults, it can be contemplative and/or literary and/or Spicy and Sexy, to taste.

Theme. In a highflown theoretical sense: Lamptide is the festival of narrative conquering material reality, of ideas and illusions becoming more-real-than-real. It is the day when you leave the sunlit world behind and walk back into Plato's cave, because our art allows us to create such beautiful shadows on the walls.

(The "lamp" of Lamptide is, notionally, the lamp whose light reveals what-is-not.)

In a more-everyday sense: Lamptide is a festival of magic.

Timing. Lamptide is observed on the spring equinox. There are a few reasons for this, some of them rooted in stuff from the RPG, but the big one is that it's almost halfway around the calendar from Halloween. I really don't want to compete with Halloween, to the extent that I can avoid it; I would lose that competition very hard. And there are enough obvious points of similarity that it's a real danger.

Early spring is also a good time for holidays generally, in the contemporary US. There's relatively little going on then, and people feel kind of festive because the worst of winter is over.

Mythology. The personification of the holiday is Father Lantern, an ogre-like character who carries a lamp. In the (notional) tales, he shines his lamp on you, and in its light you see an otherworldly version of yourself -- a creature that you could be, if you left ordinary reality behind. More prosaically, if he shows up at your doorstep and you offer him candy, he will tell you stories (or gift you with media).

Father Lantern is mostly a funny and approachable figure. He is long-winded and pretentious, in love with the sound of his own voice. But there is meant to be an edge of menace to him; he is an ogre, which means that there's always the danger that he'll just eat you, especially if you're a child. (This is not a behavior-enforcement thing -- he's not Krampus, and Lamptide is not that kind of holiday. Father Lantern's whims are inscrutable.)

I haven't yet experimented with having someone play Father Lantern, in the way that people play Santa Claus, but it's an obvious possibility.

Decorations. You put lamps and lanterns everywhere. If you can keep your celebration space lit entirely by lantern-light, that is to be commended. Silhouettes and shadow-plays are very much in the holiday spirit.

Holiday attire. Masks -- masquerade-style masks, the kind that allow people to eat and talk comfortably -- are very strongly encouraged. (When I throw Lamptide parties, this is the only thing about which I actually nudge people.) In terms of creating distinctive atmosphere, this fires on all cylinders. A space full of masked people feels otherworldly and ritualized and, well, magic. And the symbolism is super on-the-nose.

Fancy and flamboyant clothes are also encouraged.

Ritual interactions. The Lamptide tradition is to greet people with curses and maledictions. This is done in the spirit of theater superstition; it is a topsy-turvy intercalary carnival, after all. "Die in a fire" is the standard form of cheery holiday well-wishing, although you're encouraged to be creative if you're so inclined.

(Does this mostly give little kids an excuse to be gleeful about saying stuff they'd normally never be allowed to say? Maybe.)

Activities. There are two big ones.

Divination. Lamptide is a time for fortune-telling. Tarot cards are my go-to, and offering Tarot readings at Lamptide parties has proven to be a big hit, but any form of divination at all -- ranging from Actual Fucking Haruspexy to "let's ask ChatGPT about our future husbands" -- is praiseworthy. When my son was less than a year old, I had him crawl around the floor and choose Symbolically Portentous Objects like he was the infant Dalai Lama or something, and it was great.

Bribery, especially candy bribery. One of the core dynamics of a Lamptide celebration is that you walk in carrying candy, or other things that you're happy to give away, and you offer your prizes to people in exchange for them doing stuff that you want them to do. For families with little kids, this is a chance for the parents to reward their children for showing off cool skills / desired behaviors in a concrete ritual framework, and for the children to get their parents to do silly stuff. For teens, it's a structure for something that's essentially Truth or Dare with more flexibility. The applications for Spicy Sexy grownup parties are left as an exercise for the reader.

(I have thoughts about expanding the candy bribery thing into a practice of Reverse Wassailing / Trick-or-Treating, essentially, where you walk around town offering strangers candy in exchange for singing with you or otherwise doing cute harmless stuff. I haven't yet worked out exactly the right feel, though. And, well, things being how they are, you need a pretty thick social skin to be willing to offer strangers candy without a widely-accepted social framework.)

Undeveloped aspects of the holiday, which I hope to flesh out in future years:

Traditional food. We don't really have anything other than candy, right now, and it's an obvious lacuna. Lamptide isn't really a sit-down-for-a-nice-dinner kind of holiday...although I guess it could be...but I suspect it would be useful to come up with some kind of Classic Lamptide Hors d'Ouevre or Classic Lamptide Crudité or something else appropriate for a party where people are milling around doing different things. (Not a dessert, I don't want to compete with the candy.) Sadly, I have no culinary genius, so I'm going to have to outsource for this one.

Music. @cloakofshadow has written some alternate lyrics for Christmas carols, but a thriving holiday should really have its own songs with their own distinctive melodies. Which means that I should probably find a competent composer to help me out.

Gifts. It would be very In-Theme for Lamptide to be the holiday when you give people the books / movies / video games / etc. that you want them to consume for your sake. I haven't yet done anything with that idea, but I am definitely considering it strongly.

[bluemeetsyellowinthewest777]

Something I've been thinking about lately is the symbolism in byler placement- Mike's usually on the right and Will on the left (from their perspective). I've noticed this thanks to Good Omens-(it's basically proven that) Aziraphale, the angel, is always on the right and Crowley, the 'demon' (technically not a demon but moving on) on the left. And if that's ever switched, it means something's wrong. I do not by any means think that it is supposed to show Mike or Will to be good/evil in this scenario, but rather just to symbolize their dynamic and how things usually go with the two of them.

Starting with the famous 'crazy together' scene:

Then the 'looks like it's gonna be up to us again' scene:

Even later in the episode, during the 'cool-cool' scene, once again, Mike's on the right and Will on the left. (and don't even get me started on the yellow wall behind them-):

Next, Mike's 'confession' to El (which is a chapter on its own) (and also Will being the frame for the whole time, like, listen, if it's supposed to be romantic and just about the two of them (Mike and El) why would there be a 3rd person the whole time???):

Then it's the 'we will' scene in Hop's cabin:

And last but not least, the van scene. This is where it gets interesting. Because throughout basically the whole scene, we get the shots of Mike and Will from the front or sides of each one, but not in another way:

Besides from this one shot, making it special. It is also shot from Jon's perspective (again, that's a whole other thing, not the topic rn):

There are many interesting things about this shot. It is literary (as well as figuratively) a mirror. We see Mike looking directly at Will, possibly showing us the real Mike who actually sees Will. The real Mike who is listening to him and understands what he's trying to say. The real Mike, whose thoughts are not clouded by internalized homophobia and all of his ignorance of his feelings. But I might be reaching too much.

As we know, the Duffers are both good at and very fond of the art of cinematography, so there's a very small chance this whole mirror situation would be purely coincidental. Of course, you could argue it is all just one big coincidence, but considering how much 'proof' I was able to gather when I wasn't even trying that hard, I think it's safe to say there's something more to it. Whether it was intentional or not, we won't truly know until season 5 comes out, but, as metioned earlier, the connection to Good Omens (or just a similar type of symbolism) is clearly there. Thank you for coming to my Ted talk.

[starsreminisce]

@crazy-ache and I were talking about windows, and while Elain was usually seen at windows, so was Lucien. We were discussing what kind of literary device the window could represent, considering both Elain and Lucien loved looking through them.

Windows in the books tend to be places of reflection. Feyre would stare at the night sky, finding solace during her times of hardship, which was revealed to be because her mate was the High Lord of Night. At one point, Lucien was staring out the window to Velaris, realizing that Spring Court was never truly Feyre's home and wishing that what Feyre had now could have been how the Spring Court would be.

I found it interesting how windows were used to portray three big moments between Elain and Lucien and their bond. The first time they met was in front of a window, then Lucien tried to feel Elain through their bond, and Elain confirmed there was a bond there. Lastly, they stood together during the meeting after the war.

“There’s a plate of biscuits. Would you like one?” He didn’t expect her to answer, and he gave himself all of one more minute before he’d rise from this chair and leave, hopefully avoiding Nesta’s return. But sunlight on gold caught his eye—and Elain slowly turned from her vigil at the window. He had not seen her entire face since that day in Hybern. Then, it had been drawn and terrified, then utterly blank and numb, her hair plastered to her head, her lips blue with cold and shock. Looking at her now … She was pale, yes. The vacancy still glazing her features. But he couldn’t breathe as she faced him fully. She was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen.

Outside the house, movement again caught our eye, and we found Rhys and Cassian strolling in through the low front gate, returning from their first meeting with Keir’s Darkbringer army commanders—already rallying and preparing. At least that much had gone right yesterday. Both of them spotted us in the window within a heartbeat. Stopped cold. Don’t come in, I warned him through the bond. Lucien is trying to sense what’s wrong with Elain. Through the bond.

Helion was the last of the High Lords to arrive. I didn’t dare look through the ruined doorway to where Lucien now stood in the sitting room, close to Elain’s side as she and my sister silently kept against the wall by the intact bay of windows.

It's equally fascinating that Azriel and Mor had a big revelation in front of a window as well, after the High Lord meeting where Mor retreated within herself from Azriel's outburst. This moment showed that Az's problem wasn't so much that Elain isn't his mate but that Elain is mated to a Vanserra. It also cemented to Az that Mor would never be the person he wanted her to be.

The fire banked to embers and Helion threw a half smile in Mor’s direction. “Interesting. I heard her family wanted internal ties to power, and that they didn’t give her a choice before they sold her to Beron.” Sold her. Mor’s nostrils flared. Cassian ran a hand down the back of her hair. Azriel didn’t so much as turn from his vigil at the window, though I could have sworn his wings tucked in a bit tighter.

Az's bonus chapter shows his envy about not having a mate and how the third was given to another. However, it's deeper than that because the third was given to a member of a family who had caused someone he loved harm. It's equally telling when he referred to Lucien by his name and claimed he wasn't deserving of Elain, despite Lucien being in a politically advantageous position for Rhys to prioritize his being alive.

This also goes back to the gift Azriel gave Elain—a stained glass pendant where light is needed to show its secret inner beauty. Windows are used for stained glass, where the sun shows off the art. This could symbolize how both of them are looking to each other for what they lack, using each other to fulfill a desire, even though that desire doesn't align with what exactly they need.

Interestingly, Elain held the pendant up to the light, and it ended up with someone who can produce her own glow to show off that secret inner beauty organically.

I could interpret this as Elain telling him that I don't have what you are looking for.

Both of them are seeking light, but as Rhys said in ACOMAF, sometimes too much can be equally deadly. Azriel "protects" Elain to the point where she could feel stifled, and the light Azriel seeks in Elain causes his shadows to disappear, whereas it plays well with Gwyn's gentle glow.

Regardless, Elain returned the pendant to Azriel after he called it a mistake, and Elain seemed unaffected by his rejection.

The next scene we see her in, she is once again close to Lucien during Starfall, in the same clause as his true father, separated by a comma.

If SJM intends to use her characters looking out the window to convey realizations through reflections, she extends the window symbolism for realizations through actions if they are by them.

But what is interesting is that after the Solstice, Lucien and Elain were on a veranda. What’s interesting about verandas is that there are no window panes.

That barrier is now gone.

[macrolit]

Do You Have ‘Bookshelf Wealth’?

A TikTok home-décor trend has irked some bibliophiles.

By Madison Malone Kircher

Published in the New York Times, Jan. 15, 2024

When it comes to aesthetic trends, social media loves a catchy name.

Cottagecore. Dark academia. Eclectic grandpa.

Now there’s a new entry to the canon: bookshelf wealth.

On TikTok and other digital platforms, there has lately been much ado about people who own a great number of books and — this is critical — have managed to stage them in a pleasing manner.

If you’ve ever seen a Nancy Meyers movie, the look might ring a bell. Warm and welcoming. Polished, but not stuffy. A bronze lamp here. A vintage vase there (with fresh-cut flowers, of course). Perhaps there is a cozy seating area near the floor-to-ceiling display, with an overstuffed couch topped with tasteful throw pillows.

Kailee Blalock, an interior designer in San Diego, posted a video to TikTok last month that sought to define bookshelf wealth and school viewers in achieving the aesthetic in their own homes.

“These aren’t display books,” Ms. Blalock, 26, cautions in the video, which has been viewed over 1.3 million times. “These are books that have actually been curated and read.”

This literary look, she went on to say, goes well with pictures hung willy-nilly on the walls, sometimes even partly blocking the shelves, as well as mismatched fabric patterns and a bit of clutter.

In an interview, Ms. Blalock expanded on her advice. “I think to really achieve the look and the lifestyle, someone has to be an avid reader and has to appreciate the act of collecting things, especially art and sculpture,” she said.

Though Ms. Blalock did not originate the term “bookshelf wealth,” her video has spurred plenty of online discussion. “The day I ‘cultivate’ books instead of buying what I like to read is the day I’ll know I’ve truly failed as a human,” one user commented. Others remarked how bookshelf wealth was less about reading and more about regular old wealth.

Breana Newton, a legal coordinator in Princeton, N.J., who posts regularly about books on TikTok, was one of the people who responded to Ms. Blalock’s video. “I am going to show you bookshelf wealth,” Ms. Newton, 33, says in a video of her own. “Ready?”

She then gives viewers a brief tour of her home, showing books everywhere — on shelves, in overflow piles here and there, and strewed across the bed. Absent is the sense that the rooms have been staged, or that the books were bought with the consideration of how they would look on Instagram.

In an interview, Ms. Newton said that she worried trends like bookshelf wealth encourage overconsumption. This year, she added, she is trying not to buy any new books.

Another critic of the trend, Keila Tirado-Leist, said in a reaction video: “Who does it benefit to constantly have to name and qualify and attach wealth to any kind of style or home-décor aesthetic?”

Ms. Tirado-Leist, a lifestyle content creator in Madison, Wis., likened bookshelf wealth to “quiet luxury” and “stealth wealth,” styles that have recently made social media waves.

Still, she was understanding that what drives a home-décor trend like this one is a desire to create a home that feels, well, homey. In another video, she described the idea of layering — that is, slowly acquiring pieces and building up to a finished look, rather than trying to buy a bunch of things all at once in an effort to chase a trend.

“Styling a home takes time,” Ms. Tirado-Leist said.

Another TikTok user put it more bluntly in a response to Ms. Blalock’s video: “Bookshelf wealth does not mean you have books. It means you have built-ins.”

Editors’ Picks

A Practical Guide to Quitting Your SmartphoneHow Sad Love Songs Tap Into the Chaos of DatingWhen WeightWatchers Ended In-Person Meetings, They Held Their Own

Madison Malone Kircher is a Times reporter covering internet culture. More about Madison Malone Kircher

[comradekatara]

Thanks for answering my ask about eska and desna! This isnt really avatar related but I was wondering if you have any book/text recommendations for someone trying to get back into reading. Specifically educational non fiction or philosophical/media analysis type things. Or just anything you’d like to recommend in general. You seem very well read with how you parse and interpret texts and I would love to get to that point someday. Kind regards :)

ooh sure! i’ll try to keep my list sparse and accessible so as not to overwhelm you :)

i think pretty much any essay by susan sontag is a fun and valuable read, and she’s a very lucid and trenchant writer, but i would especially recommend illness as metaphor, which is an essay i think literally everyone in the world should read.

i would also recommend frantz fanon. i tend to assume that most people have read or at least encountered les damnés de la terre (the wretched of the earth), but i also really love peau noire, masques blancs (black skin, white masks) and would recommend both if you haven’t read either. i have some issues with their english translations, but for the most part they’re very clear and easy to read (which is not true of a lot of french/francophone theory from the 20th cent lol) and you can readily find pdfs online.

the essay “trust and sincerity in art” by c. thi nguyen is very short and eminently readable. it’s not mind-blowing or anything, but it’s fun to read, and i also think it provides a useful framework for discussing certain kinds of art, so it seems like it would be up your alley based on the criteria you described.

braiding sweetgrass by robin wall kimmerer is on a lot of these kinds of lists for good reason. it performs a lot of different functions simultaneously and seemingly effortlessly. it’s a fun and also edifying read, so you should check that out if you haven’t already.

finally, it’s been a while since i first read it, but i recommend darkly by leila taylor if you want an engaging work of literary criticism that is also personal and narrativized in a coherent way that doesn’t detract from the quality of the analytical work. it also references a bunch of different texts that comprise “the black gothic,” which is fun because then you can compile your own syllabus and continue reading from there!

hopefully there is enough variety in this short list that you feel satisfied. these are really just off the top of my head and obviously i don’t know your taste, so hopefully one of these works resonates with you. illness as metaphor is required reading imo, but the rest you can peruse at your leisure.