#poets excerpt 3

[serial-experiments-rain]

A Slight Dislike

The first thing I learned about La Mano de Plata: the cybernetic ban applies to everyone who steps foot in this bar, no matter their background or affiliations.

Neutral ground, Mama Zoraya called it.

And tonight, it seems busier than usual.

“We have a special guest tonight,” Celephais explains, “Felicity’s boytoy.”

“The proper term, I think, is fiancee.”

Celephaïs sets down a plate of instant fried rice with an unknown synthetic curry, garnished with basil leaves and Ygrian double-sauce. 

“A specialty,” they tell the patron, a girl who looks no older than twelve, “from the Old Argentine cuisine.”

The girl smiles wordlessly and unwraps the bandage from her neck, revealing a nu-silver cylindrical implant, no larger than three inches in diameter.

“It’s said to enhance your taste buds, the latest tech from Marren International.” Cell answers, and the girl beams pridefully.

A well of pity rises up into my throat.

And disgust, as bitter as bile.

Eleanor Marren, if you ask me, is a hack, an underdeveloped shitstain of an inventor who’s main goal is to con the entire world into thinking she’s some sort of fucking saviour of humanity, ushinging in a new age, taking humanity to Mars (she’s said that for the last twenty five years, or so I’ve read), and the only thing I can ever truly credit her for is how intricate her stupid little song-and-dance has become, a jester who believes herself to be a queen.

I’m unsure why I bear such venomous hatred for her, but whatever the reason, I have a slight suspicion that it has something to do with my current mess.

“She can’t talk for a month after the surgery is done, but when she does, she sings like a canary. Do you know what those are, Sibyl?”

The girl points to the table behind her, a gruff old man impatiently eyeing the tray.

As you can see, I have a particular dislike for a very particular "Inventor" who's initials are also E.M

Tag list:

@foyle-writes-things @thatqueerweirdo

(Let me know if you wish to be added or removed)

[yama-hai-hum]

...

This sadness is not mine;

It belongs to my mother.

And before that, it belonged to her mother.

it has finally made its way to me.

Today, I have become their daughter.

.

.

.

.

Yama.

[spilledinkandtears]

I hated biscuits. Could never stand them. But then one day I bought some to get change for the washing machine and you thought I liked them. So you kept on buying them for me, and I grew to love biscuits. (Via @spilledinkandtears )

He is my love

[divyachamaria]

At 21, love is a wildfire. You dance in its flames, losing yourself in its heat, believing that this fire is all there is.

But at 29, love changes. It becomes the gentle glow of dawn, a quiet, steady warmth.

It's about finding balance, learning to love yourself as fiercely as you love another, to walk alone under the moon and love it.

This love is deeper, a mirror, reflecting not just your heart, but your soul too.

[ardent-reflections]

"You filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life."

Oscar Wilde

[6peaches]

Diane Wakoski - 3 of Swords

Oh how can I tell you, she loves you, but wants to be alone, wants to be in your wrist, a pulse, but not in your house. See, she is outside the window now. You look at her. It does not mean you should try to bring her inside.

[justanotherhopelessromanticsblog]

i am never going to be the girl that everyone wants

i will always be the desperate, sarcastic side kick that no one gives a damn about

[runawaygirls]

Excerpt from my WIP novel, “Runaway Girls”:

“Birdie thinks she forgets what breathing feels like in these moments, so lost in the darkness that creeps into the corners of her mind. It’s as if the shadows taunt her with their claws and sharp teeth that sink into her heart and mind. She feels like she may be dying, although no injuries are visible on her body. Her brother once said that mental wounds tend to cut deeper than the physical ones, but he’s not here anymore to comfort or guide her in this world full of hate. Hate is what killed him in the first place.”

[elitheaceofalltrades]

Aphrodite Areia - Part 3

Part 2

Fashion, it turned out, was a hard lesson to learn. Or maybe Aria had forgotten how to be a student. Maybe the war took that from her too. She used to be a good student - listened well, followed instructions, patient, diligent. The skills learnt from years of being treated as Affie’s little doll were part of what had made her a good soldier. Alongside the grief, the rage and having nothing to live for but vengeance.

Aria had tried on numerous pieces, which all left much to be desired. The tops fit weirdly around her mechanical shoulder, the dresses pressed on old scars, the skirts caught on the mechanisms of her thigh. She remembered feeling ridiculous at some of the outfits Affie had dressed her in, but looking in the mirror now, she just felt sad. She added the current outfit to the reject pile and was about to call it a failed experiment and go home when she noticed a piece of fabric in the corner of the changing room. It looked like it had fallen from where she’d placed it. It was the last piece, so she figured there was no harm in putting it on before leaving.

It was a skirt apparently, lightly coloured and longer than the others, falling just above her ankles. The material was soft and didn’t catch on her upgrades, which was a plus but she still didn’t have much hope. There were others she’d tried that felt the same, but the mirror told another story. She headed out expecting the mirror to whisper the same as before; “this is no place for a war horse”.

Smoothing out the skirt, she glanced up into the mirror and froze. If it whispered, she didn’t hear it. She swallowed, twisting slightly to watch the skirt twirl around her legs. It was the colour of Valia’s bimflores and brought forth a memory of running in the meadows with Affie, Thea & Deon. She could almost smell the heavy nectar of bimflor in the spring and hear an echo of her own childish laughter. She remembered how she’d swished and swirled her first ksitr, laughing to the sound of the icnos jangling as the light reflected off the rmorri.

The assistant shifted her weight and she blinked back to the present. She gently played with the material before smoothing out the skirt and taking it off. She turned to the startled assistant and held it out to her, “This”. She headed to redress before pausing, turning her head slightly to add “please”, then heading behind the curtain.

A few minutes later, she was heading back to base, skirt neatly packaged in a sparkly lavender paper tied with a silver bow. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever wear it, wasn’t sure where she would wear it if she did. But it didn’t really matter. It reminded her of happy times and left her feeling light. She got it for that reason alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm not actually satisfied with this but I'm not sure how to fix it. I might rewrite this part later if I'm being totally honest😕Let me know your thoughts. Do you like it or do you agree that Parts 1 & 2 were better? Also, posted at 11pm instead of 11am but still 11!😬

~Eli

Ace of All Trades, Pro at None😆

[salemoleander]

lost in the dark (Hunger AU) webweave

Created as a tribute to the absolutely incredible fic @definitelynotshouting is writing, up to the current plot beat!

// Sources under readmore //

What is a webweave? Previous art: Third Life | Void Falling | Attempt 33 | Martyn | Limited Life | Nightingale Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | singing songs to the secrets behind my eye | A Hundred Things We Had Not Dreamed Of | solving counting sheep

Pt. 1: Flutter / Valerie Hammond ◆ Sanssouci Palace + The Black Ice Cream Song edit / @mountainqoats ◆ Excerpt from The Average Fourth Grader is a Better Poet Than You (And Me Too) / Hannah Gamble via @blackberryjambaby ◆ of course i bite textpost / @valtsv ◆ Lie Down / Ellen Jenkins ◆ 27 / Daniil Kharms trans. Matvei Yankelevich ◆ Embrace my Soul / Sergio Borga ◆ Color Changing Magic Potion / DirksenCraft ◆ Fragile Bird / @cocoabats ◆ Holding Onto Black Metal / Debra Baxter ◆ Excerpt from III. The Child / Quinn Newell via @voicedwords ◆ Crawler Pot / Rose Schmits ◆ Metamorph / Gunnel Watkins ◆ Untitled eye / Henrik Aa Uldalen ◆ tumblr guide for chad twitter users (real) / @arahir ◆ the best way to solve problems tweet / @wolfpupy

Pt. 2: Reoccurring Nightmare comic / @deep-dark-fears ◆ Knotted Serpentine / Hannah Russell ◆ Garden + Blues in Dallas edit / @mountainqoats ◆ The Watching Moth / Cady Shaye Poorman ◆ NOCTURNAL Series 11 of 20 / Santiago Caruso ◆ Watching Moth / Cady Shaye Poorman ◆ Afterglow / Pei Wang ◆ Sun in an Empty Room + The Young Thousands edit / @mountainqoats ◆ Study for "Mathematics," "The Sciences" / Kenyon Cox ◆ Hard to Swallow / Debra Baxter ◆ Molly Brodak / Molly Brodak via @kafk-a ◆ 02112022, S.T. / @ryebreadgf ◆ Woman with Red Hood / Alice Pike Barney ◆ Come On, Motherfucker, You Survived! / @selfhealingmoments ◆ Excerpt from The Blind Assassin / Margaret Atwood via @flowerytale ◆ Heirloom II / Cindy Rizza

Pt. 3: Excerpt from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock / T.S. Eliot ◆ i love you. i can't tell you / @/tturing (OP altered, original contents linked) ◆ Hope is the Thing - Sunset Flight / Erica Wagner ◆ Poppies + Nova Scotia edit / @mountainqoats ◆ Untitled (open/end) / Debra Baxter ◆ Excerpt from Alive at the End of the World / Saeed Jones via @geryone ◆ Weeping (Lamentacia) / Dezider Toth via @amare-habeo ◆ NOCTURNAL Series 7 of 20 / Santiago Caruso ◆ Fridge Funerary Epitaph / @catilinas ◆ Untitled (Trail of eyes) / @julialepetit ◆ Stained Glass Hellebore, California Poppy, + Poppy / Jessica Saunders ◆ 世界の声が聞こえるとき (When the voice of the world is heard) / Tomohiro Inaba ◆ Still from Don't make me do this again gif / @cibastion ◆ Excerpt from So I Locked Myself Inside a Star for Twenty Years / Jeremy Radin ◆ Excerpt from Invisible Monsters / Chuck Palahniuk via @quotespile ◆ Potion Bottles / Edited from Panel 1 Source

[elvendeity]

"I'm only asking for strength for my days. Teach me the art of small steps."

1 @soracities || 2, 3 shanna van maurik || 4 winter of artifice by anaïs nin || 5 hermann hesse, in an excerpt from hermann hesse on little joys, breaking the trance of busyness, and the most important habit for living with presence, the marginalian || 6 café terrace at night (place du forum, arles), Vincent van Gogh || 7 oamul lu || 8 leaves, lloyd Schwartz || 8 tony kushner, angels in america || 10 dead poets society || 11 a prayer, antoine de saint-exupéry 

reading lists and more

[burningvelvet]

Lord Byron writing about book-burning, queer representation, and the value of poetry . . . in 1821:

“Let us hear no more of this trash about ‘licentiousness.’ Is not ‘Anacreon’ taught in our schools? translated, praised, and edited? Are not his Odes the amatory praises of a boy? Is not Sappho's Ode on a girl? Is not this sublime and (according to Longinus) fierce love for one of her own sex? And is not Phillips's translation of it in the mouths of all your women? And are the English schools or the English women the more corrupt for all this? When you have thrown the ancients into the fire it will be time to denounce the moderns. ‘Licentiousness!’ — there is more real mischief and sapping licentiousness in a single French prose novel, in a Moravian hymn, or a German comedy, than in all the actual poetry that ever was penned, or poured forth, since the rhapsodies of Orpheus. The sentimental anatomy of Rousseau and Madame de Staël are far more formidable than any quantity of verse. They are so, because they sap the principles, by reasoning upon the passions; whereas poetry is in itself passion, and does not systematise. It assails, but does not argue; it may be wrong, but it does not assume pretensions to Optimism.”

Context: this letter was written during the Bowles-Pope Controversy, a seven-year long public debate in the English literary scene primarily between the priest, poet, and critic William Lisle Bowles and the poet, peer, and politician Lord Byron. The debate began in 1807 when Bowles published an edition of the famous writer Alexander Pope’s work which included an essay he wrote criticizing the writer’s character, morals, and how he should be remembered. Today, we would say that Bowles tried to “cancel” Alexander Pope, who had affairs without marrying, and whose works had sexual themes. Lord Byron defended Pope, who was one of his all-time favorite writers. Pope had been dead since 1744, so he was not personally involved. This debate shows that while moral standards have changed throughout the centuries, the ways people have debated about morality have remained similar.

Source of the excerpt: — Moore’s Life of Byron in one volume, 1873, p. 708 - https://books.google.com/books?id=Q3zPkPC8ECEC&pg=PA708&lpg=PA708&dq=%22Are+not+his+Odes+the+amatory+praises

Sources on the Bowles-Pope Controversy: — Chandler, James. “The Pope Controversy: Romantic Poetics and the English Canon.” Critical Inquiry, vol. 10, no. 3, 1984, pp. 481–509. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/1343304. — https://www.britannica.com/topic/Pope-Bowles-controversy — Bowles, Byron and the Pope-controversy by Jacob Johan van Rennes, Ardent Media, 1927.

[asidian]

Till the Sun Explodes

by: Asidian

Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives

Event: DBD Promptober: Day 3: Eternity

Pairing: Charles/Edwin

Warnings: absolute tooth-rotting fluff, Crystal deserves a reward for putting up with Charles, idiots in love

Excerpt:

"Eternity's a bit stuffy, yeah?" says Charles, as he writes a line and scribbles it out again. "Feel like if I stick eternity in there, I'm trying to be some sort of poet."

"Oh my God, Charles," groans Crystal, and rubs at her forehead. "I thought the whole point of this was that you wanted to write your own vows."

[woozisguitar]

my loooove congrats on your milestone omgg 🤧❤ also i'd lay my soul down on the road for a jun fic from you sjksjk. i still think about the way you put ttpd for jun in your svt as ttpd songs IT SUITS HIM SO WELL. so maybe something inspired by that? a fic, a drabble, or just even how you think he fits the elements of the song in general. honestly, you can do anything you like you have the full freedom to be creative ofc <3

congrats againnn i'm so happy for you 😭💕 also feel free to ditch the fic if you're not up for it, it's totally okay ml <333

esa my loveee 💕💕💕💕💕 thank you so much!! the fact you remember I put ttpd for jun I rlly hope you like it!! sorry it took a while jshdlj love you and thank you again 😭😭 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

requests for 200 celebration post: open (but slow updates!)

warning: kinda angsty and long, sorry 😞 BUT its a happy ending dw

You left your typewriter at my apartment Straight from the Tortured Poets Department I think some things I never say Like, "Who uses typewriters anyway?"

when you first met junhui, you found him to be a little… weird. there was no better way to put it other than this, and he was not weird in a bad way. sort of eccentric rather? or maybe reserved? this was in the third year of university, in a creative writing class. with no other seat remaining, you took one next to him. you tried to smile and make pleasantries, an attempt to make a friend in the literature department as this was your only english class. now that you think about it, perhaps it wasn't just junhui, because the professor decided to call this class of 30-some students “the tortured poets department,” and assigned the semester project, which was writing a short book of poems about the person next to you, who was also your now-assigned partner. that was the first time junhui spoke to you. a simple hello and introduction, an attempt to make acquaintance with the person he was going to spend the next few months writing about. over time, you found that junhui had rather a … peculiar sense of humor. he liked cats and often resorted to using only cat memes in conversations. he liked spicy food, albeit his tolerance was not that high. oh! and he owned a typewriter and his only explanation ever was ‘i'm a writer and this is the most efficient tool,’ with an expression as blank as the paper he was writing on. you teased him ever so often, asking the rhetorical question, ‘who uses typewriters anyways?’ throwing a small teasing smile in his direction which he bashfully returned.

But you're in self-sabotage mode Throwing spikes down on the road But I've seen this episode and still loved the show Who else decodes you?

during a discussion lecture about franz kafka, you discovered junhui might have more underlying layers compared to what he tells people. he would often point at a self-criticizing quote or excerpt and joke that it was about him. but his eyes often told a different story. he also had… days when he’d disappear and his only answer was he had to get the inspiration out of his head and on paper. over time, you got used to this, the sudden disappearance, the sometimes concerning jokes, all of it. and you still stayed by his side as a friend. it wasn't uncommon for the professors and class members to ask you about junhui’s absence and what surprised you more was that you knew exactly where he’d be.. 

And who's gonna hold you like me? And who's gonna know you, if not me? I laughed in your face and said "You're not Dylan Thomas, I'm not Patti Smith This ain't the Chelsea Hotel, we're modern idiots"

this friendship with junhui eventually blurred into something more. it wasn’t lovers, not yet, but it also wasn’t just friends. you’d discuss philosophies and arts beyond the confines of the project and class. no, he was slowly taking the place of the closest person in your life, your best friend. and you liked to believe you did for him too. junhui would often talk about making it big as a writer, meeting big names at even bigger venues. you’d often laugh at his dramatics and found them endearing. 

but now, years after not hearing from him, you knew he made it big. you read all his books, hell, you even have copies in your library but you’d always deny if asked. ‘we aren’t who we want to be. nor are we in a place where we should be. we’re modern idiots, that’s all,’ is what he said before he left your apartment and that was the last you heard from him. none of your tears, crying, begging could stop him at that moment. looking back, the only trace of his existence, apart from the wounds on your heart, was the stupid typewriter snow globe he got you.

And who's gonna hold you like me? Nobody No-fucking-body Nobody

so you let him go. despite your hurt, you knew you had to let him go. that was the only way he'd realize no one could love him, hold him, know him like you. you went to class the next day and found that junhui had shifted to finishing his semester online. he already had the credits to graduate, all he had to do was sit through the last week of this semester. your professor asked if you’d like to submit your part of the book and present alone, to which you agreed. this set of poems was, after all, evidence that what you felt for him was real. the junhui you knew was real.

You smoked, then ate seven bars of chocolate We declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist I scratch your head, you fall asleep Like a tattooed golden retriever

the absence of his presence haunted you like the echo of a poem you never wrote. you tried to live your life normally, walking past the old shops and stores, allowing yourself to indulge in the memories of junhui once in a while. like the convenience store outside which you dared him to eat seven bars of chocolate in one go, or the alleyway where you and him tried your first cigarette, and immediately regretting it, making you giggle quietly to yourself in the dead of night. you adopted a cat, sylvie, in hopes to distract yourself, but that ended up being a terrible plan because she reminded you of him in every possible way. she would fall asleep the same way junhui would in your lap. petting her was the closest new equivalent of scratching his head as he slept.

But you awaken with dread Pounding nails in your head But I've read this one where you come undone I chose this cyclone with you

things weren't working out for junhui either. ever since he left you, he convinced himself it was for the best. he knew about his tendencies, his weird habits and attributes, and he also knew you'd accept him, flaws and all. and while he had made peace with the idea of sabotaging himself, he would rather die than let anything hurt you, even himself. he convinced himself, in a true poetic fashion, that leaving you meant he would never be able to hurt you ever again and you won’t have to deal with any of his tendencies. ever since then, he would often wake up in sweat, remnants of a nightmare and faint outlines of your figure still prominent when he’d close his eyes. he would see his books, his poems, come to life in these dreams starring you as the main character. on some nights, the memories with you would plague his mind and feel like nails pounding in the forefront of his skull. but junhui’s conviction and love for you outweighed everything else. even if he knew this would kill him, this heartbreak, he would still endure it because it had you written all over it.

And who's gonna hold you like me? (Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you?) And who's gonna know you like me? (Who's gonna know you?)

so he wrote. and he wrote. till his brain was filled with letters and every waking moment felt the need to be penned down in his diary. he thought that maybe if he made it big, he would go back to you and tell you proudly that he did it. he would finally be able to confess his feelings and emotions rather than using words as camouflage. he wouldn't be a modern idiot trying to find his place in this world. he would be your idiot. just yours. he knew, in the back of his mind, the chances of you still feeling the same as him were slim to none, but he still convinced himself that he had to do this for you. during his first book release, he spent the entire tour and interview, looking for you in every face. when questioned about his dedication, ‘to the one I’d always leave my typewriter with,’ he would simply laugh and say it was an inside joke and the person he’s dedicating this book to would know. 

but years passed and you never reached out. when junhui tried to visit you at your old university, he found that you moved after graduation and severed contact with everyone. he tried calling, texting, letters to your parent’s home, all of it but you never responded. he visited every single place in this world that could have a tie to you and searched, but alas he could not find you. when he returned, he was about to give up hope to ever find you again and accept his fate. that’s when he saw you, standing against the railing overlooking the park lake. you looked exactly as he remembered you, and for a second he was transported back to your apartment. you hadn't noticed him looking at you yet, and he basked in your presence from afar for a moment. but you looked up and your eyes met his.

I laughed in your face and said "You're not Dylan Thomas, I'm not Patti Smith This ain't the Chelsea Hotel, we're modern idiots" And who's gonna hold you like me? (Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you?)

for the first time in years, junhui braved up, put on his smile, and walked towards you. with each step, he could feel his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. when he reached you his first thought was that he was wrong. he should never have left. he had everything he could've asked for but he didn’t have you and everything else felt like dust without you. and that you were much, much more beautiful than when he left. when he met your eyes, he saw swirls of sadness, anger, but he also liked to believe he saw hints of love.

“hi,” he squeaked out, “i’ve been looking for you.”

“i know. my parents called to tell me about the letters,” you said, guarding your face devoid of any expression, crossing your arms in front of you, “why reach out now junhui?”

“i was wrong. all those years ago, i was wrong. i shouldn’t have left. ever. you were the only person in this entire fucking world who saw me, my bestest friend. and… and i just left you,” he finished, breathless.

No-fucking-body (Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you?) Nobody (Who's gonna hold you? Gonna know you? Gonna troll you?) Nobody

“yeah you did. you left me all alone for years junhui. who exactly do you think you are? you’re not franz kafka and i’m not milena jesenská. i don’t care what messed up idea of love you have in your mind, but i am willing to love you. i will always be willing to love you. i don’t care how much it will ruin me in the process, i know you’ll save me in the end, because we are y/n and junhui. we make our own story. let me rescue you this time, junhui,” you ended with the quote, tears brimming your eyes.

“letters to milena,” he breathed out, “you read kafka? you hated his works. always complained that they were too sad and depressing.”

“you liked them though. i did everything i could to feel closer to you. i even have that stupid typewriter snowglobe you got me,” you giggled, wiping the corner of your eyes.

junhui wiped his own eyes, smiling at you fondly.

“so, mr. writer, do you want to follow the steps of the ones who came before you or are we writing our own story where i finally get to hold you forever? there’s also space for a new typewriter in my apartment, you know.”

junhui laughed, wiping his tears and nodded, “yeah, fuck the poets. let’s be modern idiots and write our own story.” junhui kissed you for the first time that night, against the lake with the moon shining bright above you, in a true poetic fashion.

Sometimes, I wonder if you're gonna screw this up with me But you told Lucy you'd kill yourself if I ever leave And I had said that to Jack about you, so I felt seen Everyone we know understands why it's meant to be, ‘cause we're crazy So tell me, who else is gonna know me? At dinner, you take my ring off my middle finger And put it on the one people put wedding rings on And that's the closest I've come to my heart exploding Who's gonna hold you? (Who?) Me Who's gonna know you? (Who?)Me

“i know it’s too early to say this now,” junhui started as the two of you lay wrapped up in bed in the comfort of your apartment, his fingers drawing patterns on the ring finger of your left hand, “but i will put a ring on this finger someday. i think i’ll die if you leave again.” you giggled at his promise and kissed his nose. “i think i would die too, so i guess it’s a good thing i don’t ever plan on leaving,” you wrapped your arms around his frame, snuggling closer to him. junhui hummed, his heart content for once in his life.

Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you? Gonna know you? Gonna troll you?

“everyone probably thinks we’re crazy,” you said after a moment of silence.

“i guess but they don’t know us like us, so there’s that,” he said, his voice drifting off, “as long as i’m holding you, i don’t really care about the people now.”

You left your typewriter at my apartment Straight from the Tortured Poets Department Who else decodes you?

with his typewriter sitting in the corner of your living room, you knew your life with him was now for the better. he was still a tortured poet for the world, but at the end of the day, it was still you who could decode him. no one else.

a/n: the cat being called slyvie is a reference to Sylvia Plath (sorry im a nerd like that 😔)

[literaryvein-reblogs]

George Orwell: A Writer

In a cold but stuffy bed-sitting room littered with cigarette ends and half-empty cups of tea, a man in a moth-eaten dressing-grown sits at a rickety table, trying to find room for his typewriter among the piles of dusty papers that surround it.

He cannot throw the papers away because the wastepaper basket is already overflowing, and besides, somewhere among the unanswered letters and unpaid bills it is possible that there is a cheque for two guineas which he is nearly certain he forgot to pay into the bank.

There are also letters with addresses which ought to be entered in his address book.

He has lost this address book, and the thought of looking for it, or indeed of looking for anything, afflicts him with acute suicidal impulses.

He is a man of 35, but looks 50.

He is bald, has varicose veins and wears spectacles, or would wear them if his only pair were not chronically lost.

If things are normal with him he will be suffering from malnutrition, but if he has recently had a lucky streak he will be suffering from a hangover.

At present it is half past eleven in the morning, and according to his schedule he should have started work two hours ago; but even if he had made any serious effort to start he would have been frustrated by the almost continuous ringing of the telephone bell, the yells of the baby, the rattle of an electric drill out in the street, and the heavy boots of his creditors clumping up and down the stairs.

The most recent interruption was the arrival of the second post, which brought him two circulars and an income-tax demand printed in red.

Needless to say this person is a writer.

He might be a poet, a novelist, or a writer of film scripts or radio features, for all literary people are very much alike, but let us say that he is a book reviewer.

Half hidden among the pile of papers is a bulky parcel containing five volumes which his editor has sent with a note suggesting that they “ought to go well together”.

They arrived four days ago, but for 48 hours the reviewer was prevented by moral paralysis from opening the parcel.

Normally He Doesn't Want to Write It

The best practice, it has always seemed to me, would be simply to ignore the great majority of books and to give very long reviews – 1,000 words is a bare minimum – to the few that seem to matter.

Short notes of a line or two on forthcoming books can be useful, but the usual middle-length review of about 600 words is bound to be worthless even if the reviewer genuinely wants to write it.

Normally he doesn’t want to write it, and the week-in, week-out production of snippets soon reduces him to the crushed figure in a dressing grown whom I described at the beginning of this article.

However, everyone in this world has someone else whom he can look down on, and I must say, from experience of both trades, that the book reviewer is better off than the film critic, who cannot even do his work at home, but has to attend trade shows at eleven in the morning and, with one or two notable exceptions, is expected to sell his honour for a glass of inferior sherry.

Excerpts from the essay, "Confessions of a Book Reviewer" published in the Tribune, 3 May 1946

More: George Orwell

[splendsay]

COD Fic // Callsign: Sunshine // Chapter 10: Father's Daughter

hello hi yes more angsty hand holding in this chapter UR WELCOME I had to do a lil bit o' research for this one to make sure all my i's were dotted n' shit, so I am hopeful everything comes across in a way that tracks with reality as much as possible and it all makes sense and also that u love it and honestly if u don't that's really none of my business

Callsign: Sunshine // Chapter 10 // Father's Daughter

.................................................................. CWs: Explicit language, vague mentions of past trauma and recovery, descriptions of guns

Characters: Simon "Ghost" Riley, Reader (You), Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

Chapter Excerpt:

"You won't find it anywhere. It doesn't exist."

Soap frowns. "What d'you mean?"

You stare at them -- these men you hardly know. They seem so earnest. You hate that. You hate that you only have one thing to offer them -- a measly supply of information relative to your crazed scientist father's end-of-life havoc-wreaking. 

You tighten your grip on Ghost's fingers, and he runs a comforting thumb along your pinky.

"Toward the end... My father...he got more and more erratic. His behaviors, his decisions. They didn't make sense. He wasn't himself."

Gaz leans forward on his elbows, nudging his bowl to the side. "In what way?"

"He stopped taking my calls--"

"Because you were discharged?"

You try not to feel the sting of that word on someone else's tongue, but it's hard. Even after all this time. 

"Partially, maybe," you ponder. "But he'd been deteriorating even before that. I'd thought he was just manic -- obsessed with the task at hand. That wasn't entirely out of the ordinary. But he was taking shortcuts he wouldn't normally. He told me one day that..." You trail off. The memory is like a bloodstain. 

"Dad...dad, slow down."

"It's the breakthrough of a century, Sunny," your father speaks to you through rough, choppy pants, as though he's got blades in his lungs. He's been chain-smoking again.

"This...this will be my legacy," he goes on. "Everything I've worked for, everything I've done. Nothing will top this. It's perfect -- it's the perfect specimen, I know it is."

"Dad, what about trials?"

"I don't fucking need trials! We'll go strai--"

"But, you're pre-clinical, you can't proceed on humans without testing the potential implicatio--"

"Who the fuck do you work for, the FDA? I don't have to do shit!"

"But the ethics of jumping straight to--"

Your father's voice is as cold as you've ever heard it when he cuts you off again. "Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless, Sunny. You know this."

There's a momentary, bitter pause as you digest his words. Words you know, words he's recited to you a hundred times. "Dad," you plead. "There's anoth--"

"Goodbye, Sunny."

The line goes dead.

The sensation of Ghost squeezing your knee again brings you back to the present.

..................................................................... Links to: Spotify Playlist Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

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"Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless, and knowledge without integrity is dangerous and dreadful." - Samuel Johnson (1709 - 1784), English Author, Poet, and Literary Critic and Writer