#novella's book of quotes

[cosmic-muses]

"Cannibalism as a metaphor for transgenderism is why it's called Girl Dinner."

Novella's Book of Quotes, No. 34

[justanotherliteraturestudent]

"If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also."

— Dr. Jekyll, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson

[pensivegladiola]

Lost in the Moment and Found by Seanan McGuire

[admireforever]

“I used to think I was pathetic for thinking soppy, romantic stuff like that. I don’t anymore. I just keep thinking it. I keep wanting him here. I keep wanting him to stay.” - Charlie, Nick and Charlie

[mhmeaggizeis]

The Ballad Of The Flexible Bullet by Stephen King (1984)

[randombookquotes]

lost in the moment and found- seanan mcguire

[litandlifequotes]

It was plain as the stars that time herself moved in grand tidal sweeps rather than the tick-tocks we suffocate within, and that I must reshape myself to fully inhabit the earth rather than dawdle in the sump of my foibles.

Julip by Jim Harrison

[schatz-e]

“Don't believe the lie of individual trees, each a monument to its own self-made success. A forest is an interdependent community. Resources are shared, and life in isolation is a death sentence.”

Becky Chambers, To Be Taught, If Fortunate

[can-tthink]

ive been reading the father does not die at the end (novella available in they both die at end collectors edition)

it takes place recently after the events of tbdate, where mateo’s dad wakes up from his coma

i just finished it and i’m shitting tears rn ☹️

i’m deciding to show some depressing ass quotes from it, bc if im unhappy then nobody should be #badass🗣️🗣️🗣️

(SPOILERS UNDER CUT)

TEO KEPT THINKING MATEO WAS STILL ALIVE 😕😕😕 AUGGGHHHHH

adam u ain’t slick 😟

adam silvera how does it feel to keep fucking hydraulic pressing my heart

[inneffablysleepy]

[cosmic-muses]

"Bestie, I am going to feed you sedatives."

-Novella's Book of Quotes, No. 37

[madhu-dr-cool]

[justanotherliteraturestudent]

"These companions," and he laid his hand on some of the books, "have been good friends to me, and for some years past... have given me many, many hours of pleasure."

— Count Dracula, Dracula by Bram Stoker

[thornfield-library]

Review and Commentary: The Nose by Nikolai Gogol

4 / 5 - Spoiler Warning

The Nose, at its core, is a short, sweet, and satirical critique on vanity. As someone who loves satirical takes on problems within society, I really enjoyed this story. This was also my introduction to Gogol, and I can say I will definitely check out more of his works. This story is of a man who wakes up one day and he has no nose, not as if someone took it off of his face, but as if he never had one. Where his nose should be, it is perfectly smooth. At the beginning, we see that his barber found his nose in his loaf of bread and disposed of it before our protagonist even knows that it is gone and the rest of the story is the man trying to find his nose and, eventually, reattach it.

Something very interesting to note about this story is how all of the character’s clothing and looks are described. For example, our neighborhood barber, Ivan Yakovlevich, is described as having an unshaven face and his coat, which had once been black, had become “brownish-yellow”. The narrator also points out how the buttons that were once on the coat are long gone, only leaving threads behind in their place. To contrast this, our protagonist, Kovalev, is described as wearing shirts where the collar is “always remarkably clean and stiff” and his facial hair is said to be trimmed and styled the same way as governors, architects, and doctors. All of these things indicate that Kovalev is wealthy and has always had some sort of privilege given his education, compared to our unkempt, drunk barber, Ivan. In a shocking turn of events, unlike the nose simply being unattached like it was at the beginning when it was in the Yakovlevich home, Kovalev sees a man in uniform get out of a carriage and he realizes that it is his missing nose.

”It wore a gold-embroidered uniform with a stiff, high collar, trousers of chamois leather, and a sword hung at its side. The hat, adorned with a plume, showed that it held the rank of a state-councillor.”

Of all of the characters so far, the Nose seems to have the most extravagant wardrobe. Interestingly enough, you can infer all of the characters’ social classes just from the descriptions of their clothing without Gogol explicitly saying it. This is, of course, exactly how people in the story perceive those around them.

Another theme of this story is Kovalev’s fragile masculinity and insecurities. From the beginning, we hear about how Kovalev did not get his committee-man position by education and is therefore less respected. To compensate for this, he calls himself “Major” rather than “committee-man”. Kovalev’s nose seems to represent his masculinity- as soon as it is gone, he is much more submissive (especially to his nose, which he perceives to be a higher rank than him) and seems to have lost his way with women, which is a major part of his character. After a day of being unable to get his nose back, Kovalev despairs, saying:

“In heaven's name, why should such a misfortune befall me? If I had lost an arm or a leg, it would be less insupportable; but a man without a nose! Devil take it!—what is he good for? He is only fit to be thrown out of the window. If it had been taken from me in war or in a duel, or if I had lost it by my own fault! But it has disappeared inexplicably.”

I thought this was interesting because you don’t usually associate a man with his nose. I believe this is the most blatant way Gogol tells us that his nose is representative of something else: his fragile masculinity. When it cracks, which seems to happen easily for someone as insecure as Kovalev, we see the side of him that he tries to hide by overcompensating. One aspect of his character is how little he seems to value women as well, given how we are told that he is a womanizer who charms them, sleeps with them, and refuses a serious relationship. This led the man to believing that he was cursed by a girl he had been leading on. Also, while searching for his nose earlier, he sees a young woman and he wants to flirt with her. But as he remembers that he has been emasculated, “…suddenly he sprang back as though he had been scorched…” and tears welled up in his eyes. He can no longer hide his insecurities from the women he meets and cannot face them.

Unfortunately, when the man gets his nose back later in the story, he gets his toxic masculinity back and he goes back to his old ways: arrogant, boisterous, and misogynistic. Kovalev even feels superior to men with smaller noses, turning the nose into a phallic object. But earlier when he receives his nose and realizes he has no way to attach it, and the excitement of finally getting the nose back turns to despair in these lines:

“But nothing is permanent in this world. Joy in the second moment of its arrival is already less keen than in the first, is still fainter in the third, and finishes by coalescing with our normal mental state, just as the circles which the fall of a pebble forms on the surface of water, gradually die away.”

This quote stood out to me when I was reading because of the tone shift. I can admit that watching this hypermasculine, misogynistic character be emasculated was amusing to read so when I read something I could very much relate to, it hit me pretty hard. Overall, I really enjoyed this story and if anyone has recommendations for what to read next from Gogol, let me know!

[gennsoup]

I'm trying, I thought. Set me free from trying, I thought.

Miri Yu, Tokyo Ueno Station

[annabelvallie]

The French Journal

A Novel by Annabel Vallie

“Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.” - Kait Rokowski

August.

Sunday, 6th August.

These last few days I have been savouring the simple moments that generally are ignored in life. Platting my hair until the end, until my split ends are roped into an orange braid. Brushing my teeth for four minutes, double the recommended time, letting my unfocused mind’s focused hand go over every tooth. Lingering on the tail ends of scents that float around, taking in every hint, every note; the top, the heart, the base. holding every hug, running my fingers over printed words read.

Sitting on the plane I’ve waited months to board I feel nothing. I was expecting a rush of pure freedom, but it didn't feel real. My body, just matter moving from one country to another. My mind filled with the doubt about my choice, the worry of what I am leaving behind, and the unknown of what lay ahead. I choose not to worry, not to think. My emotions are already delayed from the goodbyes whispered into tightly knit hugs. I do not feel anything but a patient waiting. I slow endless, tired wait. A slow-burning flame, patient for oxygen.

The flight from Brisbane to Dubai took fourteen hours, I couldn’t say it was a bad flight. The couple next to me, flying to England struck up a conversation in which we realised that they grew up in the town I was flying far away from. The Regional town that kissed Fraser Island on a map. The town where everyone knows everyone and clearly, it follows you out. When I arrive in Dubai, a motion-censored bottle sprayed a small layer of liquid over my palms as I walked to the gate of my next flight.

I brought my hand up to my nose to scratch an itch, that lay beneath a freckle. The faint smell of sanitiser lingered on the pads of my fingers, reminding me of the days when my mouth, muffled by cotton masks for hours on end would stifle words that longed to be spoken. My breath prayed for release, and my lungs wished for sweet, pure air. That was a year or two ago when the world stopped, and my memory froze with it. Technically that means I feel as if I am thirteen, instead of fifteen (My actual), But my soul and mind have been forced to a much older age. Older than my body shows.

After Dubai, the plane to Paris took seven hours and I spent the time, filling it with two and a half movies where the plot was underwhelming, sliped in and out of consciousness. Switching terminals from one to two, the first thing to greet me was a small white and powered blue macaroon shop. The little colourful creations were piled behind the clear glass and even in the cold tinted airport light, they were radiant and glowing with colour. I bought two for five euros (Ten dollars Australian), Caramel and a rose. They were the best I had had, perfect for my first food in France. Taking a photo and sending it to my mother I am reminded of the first time I had the dessert. I was ten, my mother had brought me into the city for the day and in the Queen Victoria building there was a small macaroon shop, quite like the one in the airport. We bought a box of six and shared, three each.

Another flight took me to the City of Nantes, where I will be living for the next six months. When I got off the plane a small woman holding a sheet of paper detailed, ‘Bonjour Annabel’ in purple pen greeted me. When I got to her I stood a full head taller than her and most likely double her weight. It's not that I’m fat, just strongly built, tall and she was quite the opposite. Her name was Camille and I was to live with her and her son Henri, the boy standing next to her. He was a bit shorter than me, about a year younger than me, and had a surfer look to him with dirty blond hair and tan skin. Camille had short, styled hair, large eyes and a pointed chin. It was an odd feeling seeing them. I spoke to Camille over text a handful of times, we were still strangers nevertheless. Maybe I made it awkward, but we hugged for a brief moment like two people who only know each other through a mutual friend. Crouching down slightly to accommodate her height I lightly held her back and pulled away after a short moment.

The first impression of Camille I had was driving from the airport to her flat. Her car was a small two-door mint-green Peugeot that you wouldn't look twice at while on the road. It didn’t have air conditioning, which meant the car was hot. Being in the middle of summer it didn't make the initial moment of getting in the heated box pleasant, but after a while with the windows down I didn't mind. She drove like a madman, with her hand gripping the clutch firmly, foot on the accelerator. As if she was ten minutes late for everywhere she was going.

Their flat, although riddled with peculiar decor and furniture, all came together to make the space very homely and comfortable.

Camille then took me to a room which was her daughter's (She was in New Zealand for an exchange, like myself), and left me to unpack. Looking around the space, I noticed and focused on the random crafts and a few toys left on her bed. While looking around, the only thought I could hear was ‘What have I done?’ the doubt blocking out any other spark of hope and excitement possible. The room had bits and bobs scattered around it, making it someone else’s. The little personal details stared back at me, shouting for me to get out. The small stickers on her mirror shamed me for intrusion and the makeup left out cried in fear of replacement. Reality seeped through my skin, washed over me like a king bathed in oil. The warm, slippery, thick liquid covered me, clinging to my flesh, filling my mouth and nose, making it impossible to breathe.

What have I done?