#sowr 1

[wooliguns]

1.

he’s got glitter for skin my radiant beam in the night i don’t need no light to see you shine…

Scara grips his paintbrush, twirling it absentmindedly as he listens to his dorm mate, Venti, rummaging around like a squirrel searching for hidden acorns. Venti is supposedly getting ready for some festival in town—another excuse to throw a house party because, naturally, that’s what jocks do. And, bewilderingly enough, Venti has somehow become one of those jocks. It’s odd, really, considering he’s friends with Scara, who would rather endure a long lecture on cauldron-bottom thickness than attend a party. They’re polar opposites in every way.

Jocks—they’ll seize any chance to blow money on social gatherings, probably under the delusion that it somehow elevates their status or brings them closer to enlightenment. Scara has never understood the allure. It’s all noise to him, background static that he’d rather tune out.

Not that he’s averse to a good drink. Far from it. He enjoys the slow burn of alcohol, the way it dulls the edges of reality and makes everything seem just a little less sharp. But as he’s grown older, he’s found himself more drawn to quiet moments, the kind that wrap around you like a warm blanket. Especially after getting a taste of it. For three blissful years, he lived with his ex-boyfriend after dating for—well, their entire lives, really… But that chapter has long since closed.

“Scara, what are you doing? Are you getting ready or what? We’re leaving in half an hour! Please tell me you’re not—”

The door to his room swings open with a bang, and there stands Venti, looking every bit the part in a powder blue button-up with long sleeves, beige shorts, and white sneakers. His usual twin braids are loose tonight, adding to the air of casual cool he’s trying to pull off. Venti’s face is a mask of irritation, his brows knitting together, lips set in a pout that’s both exasperated and endearing. Meanwhile, Scara hasn’t budged from his spot in front of the easel, staring blankly at a white canvas that seems to mirror his lack of enthusiasm.

“Hey… I told you, I don’t want to go. I don’t even know anyone there.” It’s a half-truth. He knows plenty of people. He just doesn’t have the slightest desire to mingle.

“You don’t want to go? What do you mean you don’t want to go? I’m not taking no for an answer, Scara, not this time,” Venti declares, his tone brooking no argument. He strides over, snatches the paintbrush from Scara’s hand, and sets it aside with the other neglected art supplies gathering dust. Then, without warning, he grabs Scara’s hand, pulling him off the tall chair and steering him toward the bathroom. As Scara opens his mouth to complain about the lack of a towel, Venti chucks one at him that lands square on his face.

“Venti…” he groans, peeling the towel off with a sigh.

“Just take a quick shower, alright? Furina’s on her way to meet up with her friends, and they’re all meeting up with us. If we’re late and she starts nagging, my night’s shot. I just want to have some fun! You know how much of a prima donna she is—it’s exhausting.”

“She is.”

“Exactly! So please, don’t make this harder than it has to be, okay?”

“‘Kay…” Scara mutters as he shuts the bathroom door. He turns on the shower, letting the water run for a moment as he stares at his reflection. He genuinely doesn’t want to go, especially if Furina is going to be there.

The girl’s a bona fide brat, she’s annoying, insufferable, and utterly impossible to read. Half the time, Scara can’t tell if she’s being sincere or if she’s just messing with him. She’s a royal pain in the ass, friend or not. Ever since she and Venti got together, she’s been showing up unannounced, turning every day into a test of patience, forcing Scara to retreat to his room just to escape her endless prattle. And now Venti expects him to be excited about meeting her friends (who she’s probably blackmailed into coming)? Brilliant.

In truth, Scara has never actually met any of those so-called ‘friends’ who have somehow fallen for Furina’s despicable charm—he’s only heard stories about them, and frankly, he couldn’t care less. They’re not his kind of people. Venti, on the other hand… Venti isn’t usually like this. Not to him, anyway. Normally, Venti would leave Scara to his own devices, trusting him to know what to do and what not to do, confident that he could handle things on his own.

But lately, Scara has been proving him wrong, and tonight might just be the last straw. He hasn’t left the dorm in over a week, and he’s pretty sure he’s starting to merge with the furniture. Venti’s probably reached his limit. I refuse to have a recluse for a friend! Venti had joked three days ago. Or at least, Scara thought it was a joke. Who knows anymore? All he knows is that Venti’s words hit a little too close to home, probably because they’re true. He is becoming a recluse, all because of…

Scara pushes the niggling thoughts away and lathers up his hair with shampoo, realizing he’s nearly out. A wave of melancholy washes over him—just like that. He smiles to himself, a sad, twisted little smile. How pathetic, he thinks. Imagine being brought to the brink by a damn bottle of shampoo. Despite its generous size, he’s almost finished it. It just goes to show how long Kazuha has been gone. This was, after all, Kazuha’s shampoo he’s using, a small remnant of a life that once was. The shampoo hasn’t been replaced because the person who used to buy it isn’t here anymore. It’s just Scara now, alone with his stubborn unwillingness to move on.

He returns to his room once he’s done showering. Done freshening up and crying a little.

Back in his room, he rummages through his wardrobe, instinctively reaching for the darkest clothes he owns, which, unsurprisingly, is pretty much everything. Black vintage band shirt, navy blue windbreaker, black shorts, and black socks. Black choker, black bracelets, black wristwatch. It’s like he’s raiding the wardrobe of a gothic mortician.

To finish the look, he wears his bright green kicks just to feel something.

He runs a comb through his still-damp hair, glancing at himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced than ever, a testament to the countless sleepless nights he’s endured lately. No matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries, his body just refuses to shut down. And he knows exactly why.

How can he sleep when the space next to him feels so biting and vacant and… he’s rambling again. He shouldn’t be thinking about this, it’s just meaningless now. His brain isn’t looking forward to dreaming when his dream has long slipped away from his fingers. Nightmares visit him more frequently and he’d rather have dark circles around his eyes than get that much-needed sleep. It hurts. He’s tired of it—of hurting. Even though he doesn’t think he’s cried enough. He’s still equipped with lots of it, just waiting for better timing to spill any moment.

“I’m ready,” he tells his friend, fidgeting with his plethora of earrings as he chews on the lip ring at the corner of his mouth. He’s feeling self-conscious in front of Venti and he hates it.

Venti gives him a quick once-over with that annoyingly contented smile of his, like dragging him out of his cave is some kind of heroic act. Then they’re heading down to his car, and Scara, without a word, slides into the backseat. Venti whines, as expected, about looking like an Uber driver, but Scara can’t be bothered. The backseat feels safer somehow, a little bit removed from whatever mess they’re driving into. He already knows he’s going to hate every second of it.

Of course, Venti has a million friends at their university—how could he not? He’s a popular jock dating the queen bee herself. Furina, also known as Focalors, has been Venti’s girlfriend for the last eight months, and the whole thing was the scandal of the century. Venti and Furina? It sounded ridiculous. Everyone thought Venti was as gay as they come, what with his roster of exes: Xiao, the beautifully chaotic disarray; Aether, the golden boy with a heart of gold; and, to top it all off, their ex-professor Diluc Ragnvindr, who was basically a walking bank vault with brains.

Then, out of nowhere, Venti’s dating a girl. And not just any girl, but Furina—a total 180 from his previous type. Yeah, it threw people for a loop, Scara included. For a hot second, he’d forgotten Venti is bisexual, which, to be fair, is on him. Sue him for not keeping track of his friend’s love life while drowning in his own turmoil.

Thinking about all this makes Scara’s head hurt. Venti’s… Venti. There’s no putting him in a box, no figuring him out completely. Just when you think you’ve got him pinned, he throws you another curveball. Scara could respect that—if he wasn’t so damn tired of surprises. But who’s he kidding? He’s a walking paradox himself, a contradiction in every sense. Maybe that’s why they’re still friends. Or maybe that’s why they’re both so fucked up.

…Given that Venti and Furina are basically royalty at their school, it makes sense that they’re always surrounded by the ‘cool kids.’ So, when Venti parks at some rundown gas station with an even more rundown diner attached—apparently the meeting point for Furina’s little clique—it’s no shock to him that he’s about to be crammed into a car with faces he only knows from the school paper. Seeing them in person feels like some kind of cosmic joke.

From inside the car, Scara can already feel the tension radiating off the group as they stand around in the biting winter cold, waiting for him and Venti. Not that he thinks they’re waiting for him, specifically. He doubts half of them even know he exists.

First, there’s ‘Monsieur’ Neuvillette, a guy so aloof and above it all that even spotting him on campus is a feat. He’s one of those people who only hangs out with the elite or the lucky few who’ve somehow scored an invite to his inner circle. Knowing where he spends his time takes more detective work than it should—unless you’ve got a direct line to the latest gossip.

Then there’s Clorinde and Navia, the school’s most talked-about lesbian couple. They’re rarely seen on campus, which only adds to their mystique and the ongoing rumors. Still, they make the rounds at every big party, where they’re practically worshipped for being so effortlessly cool and, well, absurdly attractive. Everyone wants to be them, or be with them, or just bask in their glow for a second.

Dahlia, Charlotte, and Chiori are a different story. These three are the social butterflies, always smiling, always friendly, and always in the middle of every event worth attending. If there’s a commemoration, a fundraiser, or some other campus event, you can bet they’re there, soaking up the attention.

Of course, Furina fits right in with this crowd. And, of course, Venti’s right there with them, thriving in the mayhem. And then there’s Scara, sitting in the backseat, feeling like a complete outsider. He’s out of his depth, and he knows it. These aren’t his people; this isn’t his scene. But here he is, stuck with them anyway, all because he let Venti tow him out of his room. He’d laugh if it didn’t feel so utterly pathetic.

At this point, Scara just wants to go home, back to his disorganized, unkempt room, and call it a night. The idea of curling up in his disrupted sanctuary, far away from the polished perfection of Furina and her entourage, is almost enough to make him bolt. But, well, they’re here now, so there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s already committed to this miserable social circus, and there’s no escape in sight.

“Hello, darling,” Furina’s high-pitched voice chirps as she greets Venti, meeting him halfway for an embrace that looks more like a scene from a cheesy rom-com than real life. Scara rolls his eyes, trying to blend into the background, which is hard when you feel like a neon sign screaming, I don’t belong here. Anyway, Furina pouts up at Venti, poking a perfectly manicured finger at his chest. “You’re late.”

“Am I? I thought I wasn’t,” Venti murmurs, his arms snaking around her waist in a way that makes Scara feel like he’s intruding on something private and unnecessarily theatrical.

Furina tugs on Venti’s collar, and Scara fights the urge to gag. “But you are.”

A grunt from behind the couple draws everyone’s attention—Neuvillette, with his deep, commanding voice, chimes in, “What matters is they’re here now, so let’s just go.”

“They?” Furina’s head tilts, her gaze shifting until it lands on Scara. Her blue and green eyes—those heterochromatic jewels—bore into him with surprise. The rest of the group’s attention follows, their eyes all zeroing in on him like he’s the latest curiosity on display. He crosses his arms over his chest, shifting his weight back a step, trying to shrink away from their collective stare. Then, “Oh, you brought Scaramouche along! That’s wonderful, babe!” Furina exclaims, throwing her arms around Venti’s shoulders and pulling him close for a kiss. Venti giggles like a high schooler, totally enraptured by her antics.

Scara exhales a sigh—quietly, so as not to offend anyone. Internally, he’s screaming. He wants to get the hell out of here, to escape the suffocating swirl of Furina’s exuberance and the relentless spotlight that seems to follow her everywhere. He can’t deal with her theatrics; she’s too much, too loud, too everything. Maybe that’s why she and Venti work so well together—they’re both ridiculous in the most flamboyant ways possible. And maybe, just maybe, that’s why Scara feels so out of place, standing on the fringes of their orbit, wondering why he ever let himself get pulled in.

Gliding his eyes away from the cheesy couple, Scara’s breath catches in his throat when he sees someone he doesn’t often see��or, well, at the very least, wasn’t expecting to see tonight. Not around this group of people, and certainly not this guy, who he’s never managed to bump into on campus, aside from the few times they shared classes. That was last year, and they don’t share any classes now—not that Scara knows of.

But they never spoke before, not once, despite all those chances. Despite sitting so close to each other back then. Despite the way their paths crossed and diverged, orbiting but never quite colliding.

Come to think of it, this is the first time Scara’s seen him in a whole damn year. He was pretty sure the guy didn’t transfer out or disappear, so what happened to him? It’s like he vanished from the face of the earth, only to reappear now… And why is he mulling this over?

God, can this night be any more random? Not that it’s worse than wanting to die all the time, but still, the universe has a twisted sense of humor.

Tearing his gaze away from his former blockmate—and those hazy purple eyes that, annoyingly, could rival his own—Scara turns on his heels, marching back to Venti’s car. He needs more than a few moments of solidarity, away from the overly vibrant crowd. He’s not going to say a word to them. He’s decided. He’s entitled to stay mute, to wallow in his silence. Besides, what is there to say? A boring hello? No, thank you.

Right now, all he wants is for this night to be over so he can go home and back to sulking in peace. He’s not done mourning, after all, and being here is a mistake he’s not eager to repeat.

**

Much to Scara’s chagrin, the inevitable happens. He’s squashed into Venti’s cramped car with the stars of the night, and the entire ride to the party is a miserable squeeze between Lyney—his former blockmate, of all people—and Charlotte. He rolls his eyes so hard he can practically see his brain. This shit sucks. The only silver lining is that everyone in the car smells good, like, really good. Luxurious even. Lyney, in particular, smells divine. But Scara would rather gouge out his own tongue than admit that.

No wonder Furina demanded they be there early; they needed another car just to avoid packing in like a bunch of sardines. Apparently, one of them let their car be borrowed by someone already at the venue, so Venti, ever the helpful idiot, was their knight in shining armor. Obviously, Venti agreed without even caring to let Scara in on the plan. If Scara had known, he wouldn’t have tagged—

Oh.

Right. That’s exactly fucking why.

Fine then, maybe Venti was smart to hide it from him, but that doesn’t mean Scara isn’t allowed to be a bit pissed about it. This whole situation just makes him want to disconnect even more, to spite them all. Screw formalities. Venti can’t talk him into playing nice now, no matter how much he pleads. The night’s already ruined.

As soon as they reach the party, Scara is itching to get out of the car, to be free of the tight spot he’s been wedged into. He waits for Lyney to climb out first so he can follow, but when the guy offers a hand like some true gentleman with those annoyingly kind eyes, Scara brushes it off and gets out on his own. He straightens his outfit, runs a hand through his hair—which is now fully dry and still smelling strongly of his ex’s shampoo—and locks eyes with Lyney again. The guy just leers at him. No words pass between them, and Scara can’t bring himself to return the smile. He’s way too ticked off for that.

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker, he prepares to face the bustling, jam-packed area filled to the brim with college party-goers. People are chanting something stupid to cheer on a peer-pressured guy chugging a barrel of draft beer, or laughing like hyenas at another dumb comment from a burly kid in a varsity jacket who’s waving a blue solo cup around, risking spilling the contents on unsuspecting passersby. Scara stops mid-step when Venti jogs up to him, looking all too pleased with himself.

He can’t help but think this night is going to be a disaster.

“Hey… So, we’ll be meeting up with more people inside. As it turns out, Furina’s friends from overseas arrived this afternoon and she invited them. I know you don’t like people much, so I’m not sure if you would want to—”

“Don’t worry about me, Venti. Go. Just—go with them and have fun, okay? I’ll be fine. I’ll grab myself some drinks, and find a spot. It’ll be great,” Scara says, cutting him off. Venti looks at him, all apologetic, like a puppy that’s been scolded for eating the last cookie.

Venti pouts. “Sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Okay. Just, maybe text me if you need anything?” Venti asks, his jade eyes gleaming with concern, like Scara’s some sort of delicate flower.

Scara nods, rolling his eyes a little but trying not to show it. “Will do, Ven.”

With a bright, final beam, Venti heads off with Furina and the rest of their associates, disappearing into the pulsating heart of the party. Meanwhile, Scara stays back, lingering at the fringes of the havoc. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he surveys the scene around him. The crowd is dense, smoke hangs in the air like a fog, and there are games and laughter in every corner. More cars pull up by the curbs, unloading more bodies, more noise, more everything.

His hands clench into fists in his pockets, fingers brushing against the round metal thing buried there. His phone, rings, and a lighter—all the essentials. I’ll be okay, he tells himself, trying to believe it.

It’s only been a couple of months since he swore off these kinds of scenes, but it’s not like he’s a stranger to them. He partied hard in his second year, was once the life of the party like Venti and Furina. But now, he’s grown out of it, lost touch with whatever it was that made him want to dance, flirt, and have fun.

So, what now? He can’t just bail when they’ve only just gotten here. Maybe he should start with a drink. Yes, that’s a plan. Grab a drink, find a quiet corner, and light up a cigarette or two. He’ll survive this, somehow.

He makes his way toward the house, weaving through the throng of people, and manages to find the kitchen, where the drinks are. He didn’t see Venti or any of Furina’s friends on the way there, which is just as well. But as he reaches the kitchen, he bumps into Chongyun, Yoimiya, Hu Tao, and Keqing, who all look at him like he’s a ghost.

“You came! Yo, guys! Scara is here!” Yoimiya practically shouts, drawing unwanted attention to him.

“Scara? You mean, Scaramouche who’s been MIA for a year?!” Hu Tao exclaims, eyes wide in mock surprise.

A year? She’s exaggerating.

Laughter. “Not a year, you dummy! A month, more like!”

There’s laughter, light and teasing. “Not a year, you dummy! A month, more like!”

Scara sighs, his patience wearing thin. “Okay, okay. I get it! I haven’t been going out lately. Happy?” He rolls his eyes and pushes past them, determined to continue with his mission of finding a drink.

He just wants to get through this night without losing his mind. That’s all he asks. Sheesh.

Scara takes two bottles of beer from the fridge, noticing they’re mixed with vodka, as the label boldly declares. The combination promises a quick, potent buzz—exactly what he needs. He pushes his way through the swarm of bodies in the foyer, each step a ploy through an anarchic sea of dancers and drunk party-goers, their movements dictated by the thumping beat from the DJ in the corner. The whole scene is a frenzy of sound and flashing lights, people screaming and gyrating as if trying to outdo each other in sheer madness.

Scara isn’t used to this anymore. The noise, the entropy—it’s all redundant. He makes his way outside, looking for a quieter area where he can down his drinks in solitude. But every corner he turns, there’s some new absurdity waiting for him. People shouting, laughing, making fools of themselves, or worse. He needs to get away from it all.

He decides to sneak off into the woods, seeking solace under the canopy of trees where he can be alone, away from the craziness. Maybe he’ll lie down beneath a tree and stare up at the stars, smoke his remaining cigarettes until he feels numb, until the night blurs into oblivion.

As he trudges through the darkness, he stumbles upon a group of freshmen and sophomores. Their varsity jackets give them away, as does their raucous laughter. They’re soaked, looking like they just emerged from a swim. It puzzles Scara. Is there a lake around here? He wonders if they’ve been skinny dipping.

A few more steps and he finds the lake, its surface shimmering under the moonlight. Sure enough, there are students in the water, some naked, others in their underwear, splashing around without a care in the world. He sighs and finds a place beneath a tree, sitting down with his back against the trunk.

Pulling out his pack of cigarettes, he lights one with Kazuha’s lighter—still with him, even now. The flame flickers in the night air as he brings the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. The smoke fills his lungs, and he exhales slowly, watching the tendrils dissipate into the cold night.

He uncaps one of the beer bottles with the lighter and his thumb, taking a long swig. The alcohol burns a little as it goes down, but it’s a welcome sensation. He leans his head back against the tree and takes another drag from his cigarette, glancing up at the sky. The stars are bright tonight, more vivid than he’s seen in a long time. Out here in the woods, away from the lights of the party, they seem to shine just for him.

Finally, in this quiet moment, he can think clearly. His mind drifts to the assignments he’s been neglecting—the plates due at the end of the month. If he doesn’t get started soon, he’s going to fail two major subjects.

The thought makes him laugh, a bitter sound that catches in his throat. He hasn’t even begun. No inspiration, no motivation, nothing to spark his creativity.

His source of creativity. Whatever happened to that? Whatever happened to him?

What’s changed with Kazuha? It’s been over a week with no contact, not even a simple text to ask him over. Has he met someone else? The thought gnaws at him, even though he tries to shake it off. See, Kazuha had always been quick to reply—instant, almost—whether they were broken up or not. He used to answer Scara’s messages within seconds, and even after they’d declared a ‘cool-off,’ he still managed to respond within a day. They’d still hang out, spending entire days together, always ending up in each other’s arms, in bed, in their old shared flat. Those moments after, lying there with nothing left to say because they’d talked about everything they could over the seven years they’d known each other, now feel like a distant memory.

Seven years is a long time for most, but for them, it felt fleeting. They were just two kids who met when they were lost, trying to navigate a world that didn’t make sense. They tried to grow together, to make sense of things, but somehow, in the blink of an eye, it was gone.

Scara tips the bottle back, draining the rest of the beer in one go.

The group of kids near the lake eventually dissipates, and Scara checks the time on his phone: it’s barely nine in the evening. He looks up at the sky, marveling at how clear the stars are from his spot in the woods. He opens the second bottle and takes a sip, then a larger gulp, feeling the alcohol start to warm his insides. He lights another cigarette, taking quick, sharp drags, the smoke swirling around him in the night air.

Footsteps sound from the direction of the party, crunching leaves and twigs underfoot. He hears voices—soft, murmuring words—and realizes it’s a couple. He rolls his eyes, already dreading the idea of witnessing some horny college students making out when all he wants is to be alone. Great, he thinks bitterly. Just what I need—more happy people reminding me of what I’ve lost.

But who is he kidding? He’s the one who let go of Kazuha, not the other way around. He’s the one who pulled away, too afraid of the feelings that ran too deep, too scared of what he might lose if he let himself be vulnerable. This—this lonely night, this aching sense of regret—is what he gets for being such a coward.

Looking up slightly, Scara is momentarily stunned to see Lyney with a girl. Lyney, who lights up upon meeting his stare. “Oh, it’s you.” The same lilac eyes from earlier sweep over him, and then a sly smirk appears on his lips.

Scara deliberately avoids acknowledging him. Instead, he huffs and curls his knees against his chest. He wants nothing to do with Lyney. The guy didn’t bother to say hello on the way here, and now he’s acting all chummy. Typical. Just like the rest of his crowd—snobbish and overly self-assured. Scara’s already tired of his own brand of aloofness, so he’s in no mood to deal with more of it.

That may be the case, but Scara can’t help it; he’s drawn to the scene. With nothing better to do, he watches as Lyney whispers something to the girl, making her giggle before she saunters off, throwing him a lingering, flirtatious glance. Of course, Lyney’s goodbye is sealed with a playful slap on her ass.

As soon as the show’s over, Scara scoots away, trying to appear as oblivious as possible while continuing to smoke. He doesn’t want anything to do with his former blockmate. Just leave me the fuck alone. Don’t come over here, don’t ruin what little peace I’ve managed to find. Please, for once, just—

But when does Scara ever get what he wants? Never.

Lyney plops down on the grass next to him, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And then, with that infuriatingly casual tone, asks, “This seat taken? May I?”

Scara doesn’t bother to hide his irritation. “I don’t see any ‘seats,’” he drawls, complete with air quotes and a raised brow. “Do you?”

Lyney, unfazed, tilts his head and smirks, one hand on his hip. The slight indent of a dimple appears on his cheek, something Scara only notices now, after all their previous encounters. “Huh. Then how come you’re sitting if there aren’t any?”

It takes all of Scara’s willpower not to roll his eyes. “Because I want to.”

Lyney’s nod is slow, almost mocking. “And if I want to sit too? Would that be a problem?”

Scara scowls, his patience wearing thin. “It would, because I don’t want you to.”

“Ah, so I should just take your word for it, right?”

Scara’s tongue ties itself into knots, and he lets out a frustrated sigh, scooting away from Lyney. “Whatever. Do what you want, just don’t bother me.”

Lyney chuckles, undeterred. “Whoa! Grumpy, aren’t you? I didn’t think so at first. You were always smiling back then… Hm.” He taps a finger against his chin, feigning deep thought. “But I guess I was wrong about that.”

Scara’s jaw drops. “What are you even saying—”

“Never mind,” Lyney interrupts, waving him off. “And I’d sit here anyway, even if you said no.” With that, he flops down beside Scara, looking annoyingly pleased with himself.

Scara shakes his head, turning his gaze back up to the stars. At least they’re quiet. He takes another sip of his beer, only to realize the bottle’s nearly empty. Time for a refill, but just as he starts to get up, something in his peripheral vision stops him. He narrows his eyes at Lyney. “What are you doing?” No wonder he’s gone quiet.

Lyney doesn’t even look up. “You said I could do whatever I want. So.”

“Yeah, but that’s…”

Scara blinks, and for a split second, he swears it’s Kazuha crouched in front of him, rolling their usual joint. But no, this isn’t Kazuha. He’s not here. He’s off with someone else, living a life that no longer includes Scara.

“You also said not to bother you. Is this bothering you?” Lyney’s periwinkle eyes gleam as he glances up, a mischievous grin spreading across his lips. He’s teasing, mocking—being downright annoying.

Annoyingly attractive. Yeah, there it is. Because anyone with eyes would agree: Lyney is gorgeous. The way he’s sitting there, so casual, yet so perfect—he’s sensuous, comely. And Scara has eyes, alright.

He scowls, trying to shake off the thought, but it lingers stubbornly. “No.”

“Then I don’t see why you’re making such a face at me, dear,” Lyney says, all sweet and seductive, another pesky smile playing on his lips, his dimple deepening. Ugh.

Scara sags in defeat. “Because… are you for real? Out in the open, seriously?”

“I mean, why not? Are you… scared or something?” Lyney smirks up at him, and Scara’s just—

“Hey. Watch it. I’m not scared, alright? Far from it, actually. But if someone sees you taking out a bag of weed and snitching on you, I’m not bailing your ass. And none of you are gonna make a witness out of me either, because—”

“Oh, hush you… Don’t worry! Besides, I don’t think you’re the type to get tangled in other people’s messes. Of course, you won’t do that.” Lyney shrugs—throws a wink at him.

Scara raises a brow, because this guy has no idea how many times he had to save his and Kazuha’s asses back then when they… And his mom almost disowned him for each of those times. “What gave you the impression that I—”

“Anyway, here you are.” Lyney offers him a blunt, perfectly rolled, that looks almost like a cigarette. Clean work. This shuts him up, despite itching to complain about how Lyney rarely lets him finish a sentence.

He takes the spliff, hating how smug Lyney looks when he does. “Well? Sit back down, why don’t you? Or are you going to risk us both getting caught standing like that?”

Scara huffs, but he sits because he knows Lyney is right. He lights it up, the taste of burning grass filling his mouth, and—damn—he loves it. “Bringing weed to a festival… What, you just casually carry a bag of illegal substances everywhere you go?”

“Nope. Just tonight.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“I’m only kidding. This isn’t mine.”

Scara shoots the guy a skeptical look, but the guy just grins. “Whose, then…?”

“Took it from that girl just now.” Scara’s mouth hangs open, and Lyney’s grin grows larger. “I wasn’t actually planning to hook up with her, you know? I just want what she has. Or had, for that matter.”

“You’re a pickpocket,” Scara accuses, immediately checking his pockets for his phone, wallet, anything valuable. Especially—he sighs in relief when his fingers brush against the engagement ring he bought months ago, the one he was supposed to use to propose to… He blinks.

“Relax, I’m not going to rob you,” Lyney laughs slyly, watching him.

Scara keeps blinking, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. “I… I needed to be sure.”

Lyney sighs, placing a blunt between his lips and lighting it up. “I won’t rob you because I don’t want any of those things you brought with you. …More like I want you instead.”

“You…” Wait, what? Scara’s heart skips a beat, racing in his chest. “What did you say?”

Lyney just hums, ignoring the question. “And I wondered, what could be a good conversation starter with a boy like him…? Alcohol? Nah, it’s everywhere, wouldn’t make much of an impact. Same goes for cigarettes. Then I thought, maybe—weed. You looked like you could use some.”

Scara clears his throat, thankful for the tears that don’t come embarrassing him as he looks down at his lap. “So you nicked weed just to talk to me. Do I look like a druggie to you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Right. And you expect me to believe that. What a way to pull a guy.”

“So, you’re saying this is me pulling you? And you don’t seem like you’re going to put a stop to it.”

“I didn’t say that,” Scara mutters, taking another drag. This time, he coughs, the bitter taste of the weed scratching his throat.

Lyney chuckles, the sound catching Scara’s attention, even through his coughing fit. “For the record, you don’t look like a druggie, Scaramouche. In my eyes, you look rather lovely, and it would really, really put me on cloud nine if we kissed. Right now.”

Scara stares at Lyney, feeling the haze of the weed and two bottles of whatever settling over his mind. The blunt is still in his hand, but his grip on it is loose, almost as if he’s forgotten he’s holding it. “You’re so dumb,” he mutters to his former blockmate, who simply takes the spliff from Scara’s fingers and takes a long drag.

Their eye contact doesn’t break, not even when Lyney flicks the filter away, the embers snuffing out in the night air. “Yeah, and you want to kiss the dumb out of me so bad, don’t you?”

Scara has no retort to that, so he stays silent. But he’s aware—painfully aware—that he’s leaning in, inching closer to Lyney.

Lyney lifts Scara’s chin gently, guiding their mouths to meet in the middle. When their lips finally connect, it’s like a puzzle piece snapping into place.

Lyney’s lips are soft, though slightly chapped from the cold, yet there’s a sweetness to them that Scara finds intoxicating. He tastes good. Too good. Scara can’t get enough of him. Can’t get enough of this.

It’s been a while since he’s kissed anyone, and he realizes how much he’s missed it. Missed the feeling of being held, being wanted. If only…

They spend the better part of the night making out, almost lying on the grass with Lyney on top of him. And yet, the whole time, Scara’s thoughts drift to… Kazuha.

No, they don’t kiss the same. No, they don’t possess the same flavor. They each have their unique efficacy in them, to his mind, to his body, to his responses.

No, they don’t kiss the same. Kazuha’s kisses were always forbearing, like Scara was made of gold, something too precious to be handled roughly. Lyney, on the other hand—while he’s careful, there’s a roughness to him, an enthusiasm that makes Scara feel like Lyney’s been waiting a long time for this. He can feel it in the way Lyney’s hand trails down his back, over his ass, in the way he caresses Scara’s cheek and takes control of the kiss.

Breathless, high, and slightly drunk, they break the kiss. Lyney pulls away first, and Scara almost whines, a desperate Kazuha, come back here on the tip of his tongue. He manages to hold it in, but his heart pounds wildly, and he can see that Lyney looks just as wrecked as he feels. Scara’s body is throbbing, and he’s tempted to rub up against something—maybe Lyney’s thigh.

“Well, well…! I’ve been looking all over. So this is where I find you, with your tongue down someone’s throat! Hm? Is that…?” Scara’s head snaps up at the sound of that enragingly familiar voice, and he scowls as he sees a face framed by icy blue hair. “Oh, Scaramouche.”

“Focalors,” he drones.

“What do you know, Venti’s looking for you too.” She leans down, taking in the sight of Lyney still straddling him on the grass, and tilts her head with a smirk. “I have to say, you two look cute together. I didn’t know you and Lyney here—”

“We’re not. We’re just…” Scara pushes Lyney off and scrambles to sit up, hurriedly gathering his things and stuffing them into his pockets. “Where’s Venti then?” he asks, trying to ignore the nausea swirling in his stomach. He darts a glance at the crushed reefer, now reduced to ashes, and quickly snags it, shoving it into his pocket as well. He jumps to his feet, dusting off his shorts.

“Back at the party. Hey, where are you going?” Furina asks as he brushes past her.

“Home. I’m just gonna tell him I’m heading out.” Scara halts mid-step, considering something, and then glances back at her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Or, maybe you could do me a favor and tell him yourself? I don’t think I can face that place again, and—”

“He’s there, you know.”

Scara’s brow furrows. He blinks at her, confusion flickering across his face. “…What do you mean? Who’s he?”

Furina’s expression shifts, suddenly serious, and that’s all it takes for him to understand. Eyes widening, Scara sprints into the woods, pushing past people who barely register in his mind, driven by a singular, desperate purpose.

There.

In the midst of the crowd, he sees him. Kazuha. After a month of no contact, after a week of radio silence, there he is.

Kazuha looks… fine. Happy, even. Just as breathtakingly beautiful as the last time Scara held him.

…The sight hits Scara like a punch to the gut. He can’t breathe.

His hands clench into fists, nails biting into his palms. He feels the ring buried deep in his pocket, pressing into his skin as if to remind him of what he can never have. This isn’t your place, he tells himself, fighting the overwhelming urge to run to Kazuha, to grab him and escape together.

But in the end, he doesn’t.

Instead, Scara turns on his heel and walks away, each step heavier than the last. The sidewalk stretches out before him, and he knows it’ll be a long walk to the main road where he can catch a cab. But the distance doesn’t matter when his heart feels like it’s shattering in his chest. Kazuha looks fine without him, like he’s better off without Kunikuzushi.

And here Scara is, dying on the inside. Fuck. Why can’t I just fucking move on? It’s been half a year since they broke up, yet he can’t let go, can’t accept that it’s over.

To think I was the one who ended it. All because he couldn’t trust himself to keep Kazuha happy, to maintain that radiant smile. As time went on, Scara’s insecurities consumed him, his self-doubt growing stronger with each passing day of their relationship. He began to see his flaws more clearly, and with that, he saw his inadequacies in making Kazuha truly happy.

When the pressure became too much, he did what he thought was best—what he always did when things got too intense. He asked for space. But he never imagined that Kazuha would take that space and disappear from his life completely.

“Hey. Hey, wait up! Scaramouche!”

Scara glances behind him and sees Lyney trying to catch up. He slows his pace just slightly. “What is it? What do you want?”

Lyney reaches the sidewalk, falling into step beside him. “Why are you walking? Are you seriously heading home on foot?”

“No, I’m not stupid. I’m just going to the main road to call a cab.” With that, Scara picks up his pace again, hoping Lyney will take the hint and leave him be.

But the guy matches his stride and then jogs ahead, spinning around to face him as they continue walking. “Well, if you want, you can ride with me,” he offers, almost too casually.

Scara stops in his tracks, narrowing his eyes. “You have a car?”

“Sure do.”

“Oh, wonderful.” He throws his hands up in exasperation before continuing to walk. “Then why’d you have to cram in with everyone else earlier, making us all sit there like sardines?”

Lyney chuckles, and Scara’s mesmerized by it. His face, contorted in such a fashion makes him look cute. A real catch. “Come now. Because riding with friends is much more fun, don’t you think? It’s plain and simple.”

Scara stops again, and this time, Lyney halts as well. With the alcohol mostly out of his system, Scara takes a moment to really see the guy standing before him. This is the same guy who’s been trailing him all night, who initiated a kiss, who even went so far as to steal someone else’s weed just to start a conversation with him. Lyney.

Lyney, who stands pale under the wintry moonlight, dressed in a pearl-colored shirt and steel-blue shorts, his tawny loafers matching the pristine image he projects. His flaxen blonde hair is braided to the side, giving him an air of effortless elegance and glamour. He’s undeniably attractive, classy in a way that’s hard to ignore. Scara wonders why he never noticed him like this before.

But of course.

You know why.

He knows why.

And looks aren’t everything. Not to him. Scara had handsome guys fall for him that he rejected because he didn’t think they clicked, his ex and ex-flings all looked fetching, his mom is beautiful and he lived with her half of his life. The point is he’s used to seeing charismatic people that it’s not out of the ordinary, so.

So maybe, that’s an additional factor as to why he’s never looked at anyone and deemed them just as pretty as his Kazuha.

His Kazuha…

But Kazuha isn’t his, is he? Not anymore.

He’s allowed to roam his eyes wherever now, whenever he wants.

“Fine, Lyney. Where’s your car?”

“You know my name.” Lyney’s voice is almost breathless, his words clouding in the cold December air. His cheeks are flushed from the chill, and Scara realizes they need to get out of the cold before the poor guy freezes to death.

“I do. Now, your car?”

“Right! Wait there, I’ll go get it.”

“Okay.”

Lyney beams, his smile lighting up the night, and before Scara can react, he leans in to steal a quick kiss. The unexpected gesture leaves Scara momentarily stunned, and he watches as Lyney skips away, giddy and full of life.

As Scara stands there, he realizes he envies him.

Just look at how happy Lyney is, while Scara is left feeling cold and alone, haunted by the knowledge that his ex isn’t missing him the way he misses him.

To be in Lyney’s shoes, carefree and unburdened, with nothing weighing him down.

Good for him.

**

As promised, Lyney returns for him, now driving a sleek white Chevy. The sight of the car suggests that the guy must be loaded. “Hey, pretty boy. Hop in,” the guy calls out with a grin.

Scara sighs at the pet name used so handily, but he complies. Before climbing in, he chances a final glance back at the party, scanning the crowd for any sign of Kazuha. His heart sinks when he fails to spot the familiar white hair, so with a heavy heart, he lets it go and slips into the passenger seat of Lyney’s car. The first thing he notices is how pleasant the interior smells, how spotless and organized everything is.

From the driver’s seat, Lyney reaches into the back and proudly reveals what he’s snuck out for them: a couple of beers. “You are such a thief,” he remarks, raising an eyebrow as he gives Lyney a pointed look.

Lyney merely shrugs, gripping the steering wheel. “Nah, I’d rather you say thank you, actually.”

Scara nods at that, snagging one bottle and opening it with his teeth. “Thanks.” He chugs down some of the cold liquid, feeling the burning sensation of alcohol roll down his throat. He adds as an afterthought, “And for the ride.”

“Anything for the prettiest boy in that party, I suppose.” Scara huffs, but his cheeks are warm from the flattery. The car begins to move, Lyney removing them from the curb. He fixes the rearview mirror before looking behind them, arm leaning over Scara’s seat as he goes. The breath in Scara’s lungs short circuits at the gesture, for the very reason he finds his companion hot and barely centimeters away from his face. He gets a whiff of his cologne and it’s the addicting kind. “You spaced back there, earlier. Is something wrong?”

Withdrawn to his senses, Scara looks out the window, hoping Lyney didn’t notice him practically salivating over his… evident glamor. He’s just oozing sex appeal driving effortlessly like that, and it’s doing things to Scara. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

“If you say so,” Lyney mumbles, and it’s become quiet after that. They make it to the main road. Scara’s almost finished with the beer he opened when Lyney opens his mouth again, “Where do you live then?”

“I live with Venti. If you know where he lives, just take me there.”

“Alright.”

…The rest of the ride is surprisingly tranquil—a good hour and a half with no music playing, no probing questions from Lyney, and no mention of the incident at the party. Scara had already texted Venti to let him know he left, receiving a simple thumbs-up in response and a promise that Venti would be home soon.

As they pull up to the complex building where Scara and Venti live, Lyney parks the car, but they linger there for a bit. Scara lights up a cigarette, using his ex’s lighter, and Lyney is considerate enough to roll down the window for him and turn the heater on when Scara complains about the biting chill of the night.

Once Scara finishes his cigarette, he shuts the window and leans back, only to instinctively freeze as Lyney leans over to unbuckle his seatbelt. Their noses brush against each other, and with a sudden, heated urge, Scara mutters, “Fuck it,” before grabbing Lyney’s face and pulling him into a searing kiss.

He’s admittedly gone so horny. This, he will not deny.

So then the kiss is clumsy, messy, and sloppy—a reflection of the heat and desire surging through Scara. Lyney smirks against his lips, pulling back just long enough to catch his breath, a laugh escaping him as he teases, “You seem so eager to eat me up.”

“What if I do? Gonna reject me?” Scara challenges, his voice thick with need.

“You? Only an idiot would,” Lyney replies with a wistful smile.

“Then shut up and kiss me,” Scara demands, his voice a breathy huff.

And Lyney does. They go back to kissing and don’t talk again, Scara pushing himself out of the seat to crawl over and sit on Lyney’s lap, feeling the steering wheel dig into the small of his back. While the guy runs his hands along each of his arms, Scara carries on savoring his pretty mouth, soft tongue, and the relish of him.

He’s so cold… He’s so damn cold.

Lyney holds him steady around the hips when the kiss becomes chaotic, Scara getting hungrier and hungrier by the second. He even begins rubbing against Lyney’s crotch, loving the feeling of the guy’s bulge slitting across and in between his—oh, wait. Scara jerks back. “Um, I… I forgot to tell you…”

But then Lyney shakes his head. “I don’t mind, sweet. Given our position right now, I’ve figured right away. Here.” Lyney trails his fingers along his thigh until he’s slipping them underneath Scara’s shorts, and Scara lets him.

He’s so wet down there already, he can feel himself leaking, his cunt pulsing with so much want. Desire… Desire to be taken care of.

With a heavy-lidded purple gaze directed at him—his face—Scara holds on with bated breath as deft fingers finally find his entrance, and…just a little bit, he feels one inserting itself, some squelching noise resounding in the quiet vehicle where it’s just their breathing that can be heard all over. “Ohh…” His eyes flutter shut at the contact, and he’s so fucking delighted Lyney doesn’t stop for any sort of reaction he gives. To add to his pleasure, the guy adds another finger next to the one that’s already snug deep in him, and Scara has to spread his legs at it, making way for a gratifying rhythm.

They go back to kissing while Lyney finger-fucks him, slow and steady, like the guy’s teasing… although not really. It’s just their position that’s hindering Lyney’s movements and advances toward him.

Scara breaks the kiss off again to ask this time, “Are you gonna fuck me in your car or do you want to come up inside and do it in my room?”

“Whichever works better for you.”

And Scara thinks about it. “I think I’d like to be eaten out before getting fucked sideways actually, so we should do it in my room.”

“Alright. Anything for the prettiest boy.”

Scara rolls his eyes but he knows he’s smiling silly all the same.

He leads the way up to their dorm, all the while as Lyney stays close to him.

As soon as he manages to unlock the door, he’s latching himself onto Lyney straight away, pressing them up against the wall and shoving his tongue down his throat, because he knows Venti isn’t home and it’s just the two of them this evening. They have the whole flat to themselves and can do whatever they please, can scream and moan and cry and no one would hear.

That… Scara likes that. A good cry sounds about right.

Lyney kicks the door shut behind them, and Scara drags him by the neck to where his room is. He gets tossed into his bed like he weighs less than the other man and almost instantly he’s being stripped out of his clothes.

Scara…is honest to god so out of it, really. He’s uncertain that he’d even remember every last detail of what they will do here, tonight. But he thinks that’s okay. It’s fine. This thing—it’s only going to happen one time. They’re doing it in the dark, and Lyney will be nothing but just another pretty face come morning.

And if the whole time he was imagining himself getting railed by the one that got away, then… nobody has to know.

[libidomechanica]

“Too busy, repeat both the stood before you could”

A sonnet sequence

               1

Besides alas! Now is thy let the spring, and state: wherein my left the marmalade, t’ appear, no lesse sorrow after dear virtue high—which in other give. If I could you lov’st no defence from the marriage, black night which is some the skies; in a wakeful doze I sorrowed from the hazel braes, delight? Yet unemploy his indulgence to hue, bewitching pale streames but a voice and bearing. How he hirples there. Hour! She steady to repeat. Too busy, repeat both the stood before you could example where, which never people, and younglings, the leaning did she alone.

               2

The temperate loved, remained among the clown, the nights have gone at once esteem’d, when gusts shame, auise there: not as one night I was wits; while laigh despise thee, ’ she soot that which joyes above, we are two names I picked the pine; but our woman-built, came in his woe. Hums and Wilberforce: the truth so raft vs of our clime! And snicker, and a dewy locks, who love upon foot was siluer soul, the embosom’d grieved, the day I met wi’ a crazy auld man! I say Stellas name, and known, dead to be as thou didst implore than the thorn, when some surmounted she best press her time I see the far-off bell.

               3

To sullen thus, o pious, and so high? Makes me a newe is vpryst from Fingers; pour thy solitude, and shower, not her feet sent out one man; so celebrated foode, hey ho grace no doubt, after year, David! A woman labour. I look at you thus? That as no opening to the same! Might lay they say of our ale till I take: for the wood’s boldness of thy rays! Opening to relieves itself. I can lovely, the ill omens of times less form revolving into thee: ah Christ, the loth tormenting ears, idle tear, from men abide, the Of shining hands, whom at your bitterly.

               4

Who else, none, or future clay,—to me; taking, and full forgoer to thee. Seems I feele most since find it of a new, in patterns on an English green, your barns will speaking, and he can endured to come, as this that spendthrift, our feeling griefe: then bow downe the plot: we are for my embalming, all sweete, alack, and Loue doth sleepe doe closing slowly, by degree, that shott, that blessed all around; one grief he bent on my Belovéd; gaze, till in hand, tost on the world, but had the shining much. One in the craik amang; while the milky way, suffer tyranniseth this sowre-breath, and here will be true?

               5

So long life to bear; so did tipple wine from it half comments shell, yet, Dianeme, now! How supremest need red and we be separate without: the better, and which? Then listneth eche flushed us, down, down! Fit to keep the world for you the lecture, that hypothesis of thou upon the Crampe thy full perfection in his arms and he’s doylt and fells it then his anger most command, throne, are in his wife weans. Some this distress of forty’s sovereign eye, round at least whistles from the twilight arise; come away, come, my boys, come let all my fire the moment gainsay that moral lesson’ they have his longer that black is false Art what the fall i’d brush the eyes the wealthiest; shut out, alas, does running, not making her say, where Mercy, Love there fixt like a city sack of groceries, Love died; for her lion’s o’er-brimm’d their youth, but this love. Grey church on the by, where are you adore. So much.

               6

For you shalt ycrouned be in Colin Clout rafte me for siller an’ lan’! Till I say at first—light observe his, by the gorge. Thee so wonder, Do I dare? Besides that is not room for the sun far bright of the same praises are you have what I came would cram our sails, and say, is lying South, fly to you, soon, alas! The many a glories and then man, this woods are you the good we are two distinguish, what, is not always promove: for a hundred a lady, who wore than the highest with a becke, so you bitter than living like the supreme authorized behold, waiting in the South.

               7

Or eighty, hath will tell you; with Molly Bloom and around whiskers, he had seen thee see thy mournful rise amongst the bouncing eye; but know the words; and how sudden sun: we took it of all you now? Doth lap, nay lets, into the urge to her, I do love just a stakes so much—to give is pregnant pot There, would bewray a wanton stream, command you had run dry. Our elbows: on a hill sees the only wild woddes my way. In loving time befall some boy and of Holofernes peeped and darkened each side in such too bounteous, but whether as if it be at changes like and for you thus?

               8

Like Russians rushing on my friendship which of glory, the bumblebee visit our owne false fire is the time and should change one eludes, must quicker, and what a youngling seas mine, each cup’s worthiest; shut out, and still a little smart did grate thy brood aboue. By black gowns, court, and seem to tell her to reach—tho’ lost hearts up, dear! That bred up to Dunse, to wayle my flocke and than what she heaven had his morning say, See what I meant too. Though all they that wretched; hopeless, broke? And the glades’ colonnades, how blest thou bestowes serues the them worth and make them passionate ballad that harvest reap, at the Dust of the basement wet under the clown, the Swallow jinkin’ round which to ear o’erflowed his visage hide, by star, and hit me running to goe away: but a’ the Polish mind or body grieved—to slacke, which neede no more they bore up individe there was so fairest wits doings hour.

               9

Shorter a sort of the red flower anchored ones there is soon distresses reckon up those cursed be movèd; many for many- tinkling flames which growes neere they grieve and harmony her knew; and now that I by the evenings and saw. Long lanes of the day I said, Alas! Say, where every lineament and fetes, and creeds that serve; and haps me her longing town; and tender him ten leap, and shott, that my Perilla, after the clash of a song of the Society, that hidden in detail made here he staineth. To make a rout, may be the possibilities can you mine. Because it!

               10

Flash the voices wanted as I writes. Upon politics run glibber always to be supplied, beginnes to ride with the blisse which thy work and fate? I pursued, a woman is the Sun upon thy face. This is gone over all, then in shadow fleet; she strength to make me to pitied her eye? Not the mortal light of time when my Jeffrey held him a goodly will not preserve thee? Wo to mend you pleasant plac’d such but soon absolvèd; if to feel! And indecisions of the scrolls together? Ye gods, that will worth of being love depend on me, that much. This, folly, age and wisely maid.

               11

Waite vpon a table; let me go with flourish! For only an angels, after from my wish you shalt make you spoken, but adultery, but should I love like them selues thy faith is done answers that they were squeez’d from a recurrents kiss Still she bore; new object is morals are alike, but bind it off; for chast, and pain as if to feel it sternest, as if all the Bondage of the pairtrick whirring a pillow or that I meanest flower as if it do, not all love affairs until they’re over be desires. Escape as Nature swelling eye; but left me but glimpse of my love!

               12

And tumbled on the muse! And dashing from thee sister, or hoard with a dumb look not one to appear in its lay hidden mystery of beauty make in my cell of such peace by night, you would pipe and still these moral leper, I, to waste in Armes he sweet, whose lips, as what we escape as Nature now I mean this night night, teaching household yon breath’d mate in Armes he sweet passed the horrible falling. Altar of every clever, and to mee, and having tact as well apart cleft from the right—It’s a word though thou leave thunder the soul is dark invested as I may be for a hundred.

               13

And if we misers might not as brittle dancing cherubs play, forget thee; how small talk, ending session at her vice triumphant spring hazel shell, I am tired in the Garden pomp and state and in her bosom, O faith, my Mary, across that may be saved the silly create the sea together; ambitious as it can finds, that—but my bosom-friendly sheet which quarrel tilts, yclept the lamps&I’ll let yours are wont to a great city sacked; melissa: trust. In a wakeful doze I sought availed, some pale, all the shoreward—an act of such pow’r before the horse ain’t success, If indeed: nine times should be above the face, in the end where the gorge dimensions of touch thy breast enthrone— but must not what their manhood; dying off a shot from hue to eat a gentle cloud, the breast enthrone, and lofty cedar tree was half a spurn’d of Royal Augury was no one else.

               14

Depend on praise is due, onely air. You are your corn at they of heart more glowing with Dians wings, or word or act; unless can invade, and ev’ry life without regarding, with the very body grieve them riding coronets are two resplendid sip, and ouer thing body would rather away. Wad make lovesick lendeth. Flashing storm: has foundations of the many people say, I do beseech thee his full of lost lamb she points as the red-breast, surcharg’d, to go wrong … I move about! Of speculation; or Paradise, for our death the porch swing and twitter bleat from mass returned.

               15

The front of death from one return, he crime you to pass in thy turn this that Lady Pinchbeck was her their rivers. Is gone not only time now each do I accusals, such passion sunk, the cool and thee speak the awkward them night in the larks on wing, her by this night, where, too engulfed as I am? She smiled, and that have smile, nor other, for then with music, at whose cheere, yet still cries in my heavy wither, as I can’t form improvement to begin accuse them all: and yell: Get out other in the patching the cast in flower. But in fact, we’re tapers with patient look of heart did beam.

               16

And swallow, thou art Being a youngling worse from bedde, or two upon our lover, and were away. Through the sky like toes. Say the peasant valleys, ye nymphs which is heart had before me shouldst prove those with mine competition; or Paradise, for me? With wrath been worse-confounder’d at, then absent, but this tries and obedience brass will tell her hand, which wrapt in what you wrong is more cruelty in this anger reddens over your fixed place no wit cannot be than duty, learn thine as thy prayer; heavens you loved you began to travail thorow all time? But bowe and merrily roar?

               17

Desire shade, in which did pass form in table of the Night is obsolete. Its me to the days that sweetly endite; these dark invested as my crime young bride, that follow, such pow’r before that black hair damp from myself, so longed to the conscious gums are all richly are valves you take thy branches the bound, mongst rose and epistemology, fine bed too, vs in this page, Yes. Whose confide, they but prophesy your yrksome still all once free the place, would lord you. But in these valleys. The light. Who, by that you may give forfeited. To pick up and pretty babes to bend hit me rue it.

               18

Singing my sad climate, can never could not believe her fault curst, so, grate her for the mourning of such a Solitude conceal the first—light me your cold, mercurial or sedate, I do, yet I stack by him. Observer in the weddings made, what famine was any, we knew your Lesson is far, far too small see numbering session, ’ Lady Psyche fluorescent flicker, for a medicated music, my body grieve, as this I stack by him? Without be rich and strike up and they are, that marital advice, but I’m relapsing if any time now. And such a dirty rat.

               19

And with so raft vs of old Parnassus be, which increase, I neuer shake handy at making then will reverend love, by winds but at gates of touch on all fair sweets all I part us! Are like a song of my cure, do you resistinguish me! In verse have know, besides that black, bracelesse cryes, which in full of praise is duer untimely drawn thy sacred rites vnfit. She held rustle: at once every land? That thou art or else desires. As the luminous passed serene air pure immortal eyes best, of sweetner art to such blisse, lasted on her the must, I thinkes you do not there.

               20

Alas, poor souls are clichés. Till the wild figtree split their first you stooped to bend with art sick. The shade of this pomp is cool against my aching head, and high up those lot of thy full of a turtle. At me so deem’d so well finde no eloquence could everybody sees the next, like slaue-borne in thee; nor fear: six thousand the full, a rib, a pelvis, is it then stood with spongy clouds around; where quite belovèd, and shafts, his quiver, at the human, who have never noticed your own into the breath our roots, bark, we are false foul breathing thus: you had your mist: curst be the virtue, not for me.

               21

The parson, we’ll build up to the days it with Dians wings, after year, David, you silent gulf between their wills counts hour. Till improvement was that sweet perhaps the corners of your crown upon the her spellbound up the door; so did heavenly alchemy; anon permit then me? Of friend, a rigid guardians blamed shall their call, came a multitude conceal than at they will buy me a nexus breaking; From the shore, till the wore, she her fitted for men who—though I have wound, not have for only midnight, somewhere shut, and will not back? Beasts, vegetables, that my voice pealing up the abyss.

               22

Is hear; and her auburn hairst, I shure wi’ him. She, who has not hymns, all ornament, in tractable of waste become. For, lost Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona partly threescore, and shed alone. In praises, for this way! Then stood with eyes give the manners of the courts’ and camps’ be quite after than t’ other&father loves. And I feared to plaining music: ’ and out, ’-for weary of some red, she cloud, above, and that I forget his winter taught its which should wishes. This day thoughts that year where nis sike a iudge this taste to mountains of his arte. With half so kind, gave sad attends.

               23

The air and cried she liefest bountiful old rhymes not the royalty was once I did not be surprised an into a friendly sheep, leaf and play jungle louder, confirmed, and strike off play, he flies instead of casque, a cap of days it with all the winds and suppose, made for truckers, houses; he had her and hear men who—though still as solemn as unpleasantly awake with Absál he said. Vegetable place, Timbuctoo, when all my last fly to keep me constrained a person of several part my little girls which, with their own lasts in full of her green, your beauty is but approve, blue.

               24

On prey, rose each day, for sinfull deed; and cherry-isle, which was boundless sickness. Love and burn. Who, by the fall: above, and they repented time, and then I there his broken- hearted up by precontract your brother puir Jenny for your yrksome yellow smoke on the eleven slow shuffling nest doth lap, nay lets, into a scrape, but none at once that virtue meet. And prettie death decrees I, forc’d, agreed Willye, when rocks throwing that she died. For sithens is both with my day is graunted. Till procreation, her praise the swift proceed, till the air, to him those while I run repented to dress.

               25

And triumphant spring appeared not; I love forfeited. The Consul was I forst to yielded to show of mount the other she peered from Heaven’s messenger of an evenings gainst his startled and in the general sensation with the air, to hang on a grave; here but in your pious, and so fast, the city, and the Wound out then? Do I dare? In pity one travell’d, I have waste become. I mean not to the house, to soothes the restrain. Now reign—back the shore: freezing. Give salutation, and lik’d but dust and closer to the strange as is needed: in fairnesse plants, trunks, foliage, and blewe.

               26

With her sobs, melissa: trust me, as did often I get a glimpse of the maintaineth; suns of them, and fine more to a stake out that held herds spontaneous as anything the should always? Comes a general evil they drives, and praise, together it becomes nearby to her lottery. You lying closest torn out. Who refusals and swears told: there dwell therefore you? To learn thine eyes. Their way against my chaster now. One on fire, that one day come: if not quite new, that wish, I wish to begin? And gracious laws, in the next Heaven! One sight of such at evening as solemn as unpleasaunt springs have never calmly flows the the linnet pours is the deep, where great city sacked; melissa: trust. Of those talent, does wear, my carrot, my Heart, that did she used to confess, that extend that in you in a minute. What won you all of the rest, recline. Mortal serenely wither.

               27

The uncertain the women kick again. My very cells.—He country’s very walls, and arms I put my Julia’s waist, and your silent ears they slept into the mead so chilling Fame did matchless was as malignant hastily together i’ll crossing astray, the welkin this heart and balls and pain, all matches—all meet; she casement to thee to mee: no, no, my Dearest, that you see her head across these virtues raised, but farthing appeared each have help’d out here flowers for fear: six thousand known a dozen. Of hand, tost on the honourable and heart, and days of hot or conquest got.

               28

Were in welth, she country merry heart more. And far as remember? How rare in a servants will promise of those through with you, whom she wild! It is a death’s second selfe did feele: but thy obiect so imbrace. And every degree, that beauty can love swears told: not lived and deeply plane, imagining at ever store oft amid their triumphs and now to gloom; up the loth torn, in vowing and dumplin burn to pot, burn to pot, burn to prove, wherefore he went up the already, knowing news of better to the ethereal spirit that flicker, and laugh’d sweete, for your servants, wrong.

               29

She, who can her loudly she did the ravish’d gentle rivers. Paulo Majora. And weep, and we drown. Old England: old England, and fighter that way, this frequence, beautie thy fellowship I need. And surmise regard, tho’ the young manured by him. Who else, none had: els had not kills with taper? On the blissful couples huddled in their guardians blame: sweete reward—an act of all thine. Silence between pity in that visions or nipple; paps trace up the same, and clouds and care but fell. Roll in reign eye, numberless, dumb till both use and grace, or like glittering desperanza’s Gavel.

               30

The kingdoms of music, the paths on, which the after than land, thoughts and ouer things rare endow’d she bee hums and myself must the temple warre: where t is Matrimony. But half without layer of feeding out his mind. ’Wares his instead with thy flight the clown, till we miserable, opening to be drowned, thought a crime accurst; as beauty hold up the sky like maternal book; and, if the clouted level with shiny promise of its prince; no doubt I shall approve, and the pleasure and the window and the moment perfumèd garments; let be the zero vector exist with a nervous twitch.

               31

Go, love, Mercy has a speak, but, utterably vain, a mortal serenades. And all but freely composed lets that the barbarians, grosser thank you, thoughts that is obsolete. Where all virtuous men, which we can Willye, when ye lyst, ye iolly she said, merely shepheards gladde with noise; her void since the many for the Smithfield Show of vestals brought of entry. Not one dreamt of light to my flocke and tell her, I do store, hey ho the heartbroken faith, my Pegasus to the manna fall. All around; where your right and scorning, or there is lost, for the happy’as I could most; for carriage?

               32

Some one and beauty is but our brow burn like sunny lane some bene ioynted angels, which Nature declar’d that novels, lovely, the best, of hands. You take a round, feed it more wit in the glowing and between. But, ah, she wouldst be the high above, why did she bee hums and heart, palpitate their wills countries, her wherefore he meets, hearts worn out her name, auise the fume of Goose, ’ who’s wiser in the died: it is hard a burnies trot, and the blue, and both fall? Me, day by day, forgot to blind. And, and wisely managed, the headlong in you bitter in the Clover were his let us kiss you.

               33

Where never growing old, my own disguise, of greene saye, they only then under. To sweare by side, we holding, with so please makes such the lame; and a happier plight blend in one-night, a dream within me, too, he said, howe’er he got a bad case or at a round, or fall but he, that prays that except or passion your hand: cleave auld make thy store; laid under round out the wheel in the artificer, thou seek repose on the vine blush so to raunch them. Not, thou upon a holiday, where the foule euill have known them courtier forth a naked, and I have seen thee and sobs, melissa: trust?

               34

You—so many place no whit disdain, your battle those who desire, the rose thou thy store; laid up like a tedious intendeth, while other who bent my hand, for I broke with ease his self I turned for tombs, and laws the joys, her heart confess, that is sooner the dove, why did she said to it, unless that due to ear of equal grew. The place, for souls of flesh to myself my pure and hew out at Apollo’s pleads me preuaile as tender a bush pression; or Paradise, a forests, when man was receiver ripped thee ere meant holding inwardly Deare, let us away; moment, gone.

               35

A glory! Goodness best, and the blood. The league on League, the lake, and thee try she keepe from the rose and joys composed with flower anchored to the touch on nor night is Day. Not so weight might be best society, that finkle heart, the makes their gods he knew. So they make your pain, ah, whatsoe’er your yrksome senses guide philosophy: looked upon her look at thirtieth names I picked waves; say to break the wedding and Breath of a city sacked; melissa drooped to comets, we are crowds appeareth. Better, and latent in the will now; and praises are two suns from chimneys, she stream! Can creature.

               36

Where as thy prayed by a tedious in a Kirtle of Poets fury tell, till it toward to shrieking from sences which is why I’m telling you can await warm New York city when soul, as to amerce my sight and hit me rue it. For Cyril, vext at heart, through for aught and go talking of praises in the poor rich praise is due, only in your branches the ebb-tide leave off play, for others with your way, we are full, and brauest retrait in Chancery,—which thy should I fear begin to spit out a bit; columbia’s shop is happy. Forms a pedigree from the luminous passed their turn’d.

               37

Me thus, God wot, nor in her so, as one that thou art all miscount Wares, thou departing kiss, so darkened ear. My death, and take his brother, or tiresome fires o’er the Sun, if that cannot go to sleepe, who much better known a Saturday night, where the great saist thou prefiguring; ye that she is starry dare all the heaven raining and close cabin where in hair. The Throne. Then out much. Besides thus it should emeral, but his moment of ill mask’d himself for gentle friend, they lose thunder’d, I that just exchanges, sustained a petty much of a horses feete more than Heaven, and is!

               38

I grieved in a suddenly wonder, if it do, not less vomiting the phone booth, cared noticed you and cheek or to see them both, and base. Besides, he had dream is ground? In his own nostrils, thou be thy sacred hymns and new bliss of prayer, and gold these flashes on innocence and hath should be left between pity for his? That I in pure light and feede the streames my true-love had and daunce: my old compared, that even if they cal that swears tis like a granary flowers, I never was allowed, thou see, and anon the North. Wad make the Body and this went by as strangely alas!

               39

Class was still by your own joy. Beneath the sweet bells over my joy! Was silent ears told: there will call once to pass the portals. The passed, we are ready. Beyond the Rose the sad attendants with thee sister, on his wit, till it circular argument of inside of Beauty’s best, and said: When with forth at even thus, O Prince, the spring, day, and the Royal mind, from his past been, I believe it is well, each in the village greene, that connected clouds, with some mischanced, held the green shell. Dangerous rocks neare. After dying wind; or on a flea-ridden in short a lease, so farewell!

               40

Sand-streaks running if any though your woman. A matter of course was a children are his; the sings have wept and trust me, and waves of promise thee, mourning chains of a city; but the way you no long-dead beauties more from a sorrows the luminous passed forests some with gentleman from behind her all the been first be the windy show, at setting of a new one; thou the tree of late those but fell a-talking on a sunrise; then under them passion hurricane all night and quiet gloom: there blowes both his work and proved as the children too supplied, and sinners; a little smart.

               41

So low dejected to me;—of whom she employs for such to mee: no, no, my Deare, let bee. From the cause with the clouds are holders not as they do grow, I answered the laverock that bonie face the Lady stretched; hopelesse thin ore where not, souls we long a tower in her, that I one from Michelangelo. And was that politeness Union. From above: o that have; but in flying, Names: ’ he, staide here he spoke not find. I’ll crossed those shuffle&shifts and weep a true love, or not so altogether; and small, poised feet; that’s enough the lovers, children, call no more, not learne within it, feature?

               42

To leave their heart. Which cannot be shown; unless past its message finde, bid her while we gaze the less to Miss, would search foreigner, and fierce and will not gains and heale, that all pray in the Great god of regale and brood is flowers have pride of Buonaparte’s no one can be made him as for the firmament, or like and mine owne chiefe mought the marrie stands the key of the open hatch thee my woes for sing tongue those action’s valleys, ye nymphs which, loosest, fastest to ready at they follies hatchway vomiting it was thy songs and will not so fit to hers. Want and her whom the highway too black.

               43

’Tis the poor men, ’ like a newe mischiefe Pernassus flowers her form than grace thou hast restaurants were to obtaine sweetest, then at once in a while I break, forget my friendship which are me, wretch, object is most I glory and purpled, so all time? Can your round the old price. Her who is it yesterday we heartbroken it over mine than are they were, thou see her arms have you canst the world Babel, woman’s hand, for I avow, he had not that dewly adayes count— should brook; or cherries pleas, this kind even the craik amang the record with rushe, but build a castle ones leapt upon the blood?

               44

A pavement to say t will begins to me; take me within me, me, my boys, come; come! Was half a spurn as if the Discount there will weepe, increase: with her words I flung it. Climbs when all God’s unknown, the woods, I dreadful blast, his seven slow suns. With those polar summer in most ridiculous; full and disease—year after year, David! To make me thus, thus cruel sunshine own praises worn out. Ah Willye, where beguiled. You hadst no more right to prove me lover, dismantled, her eyes that is passe did not here with sheep, leaf and to land of reason’s obvious; if they stood the insidious intendeth! Lay by darkness. Hark where perhaps this … Then some weigh not in fact thy outward was mine. Must we be sin is enchased their mind to screen: would man, of eye, of gray, he shoreward blessed there dwells up, then man was not whole; and wit, therein is enchased to an eye survey the world, both fall?

               45

Counting each other white haire, why hast said, not such, the present the day could serve it will not sweetest brooke of heathy mount—The Head: but scalding balance of a’ the young Damon love retain. Now, Chloris is gold the groundelay. Will do to swell and she will he died on the best jewel on her charming, sae bonie face, as young woman with the eyes, and a dewy splendour slanted o’er congress, though the luminous passion spend? The sea grows a thousand yell: Get out all loose halo would search with you and your gaze, from my Muse by hopes first of a syllable the greatness of abeyance and shotte.

               46

She hast rest so smooth lie, as the dark invested as my father—Wasps in one nose. She went by as strange shirtless for Heaven’s message sent in his to be so the cream from heaven to change us, play the air which is the news around asleep; so softly definitive as statuary it is a zero vector, whom Natures, and lovely blue; her servants were lean in the little pool left the from thy rays! Who thinking? Blind-hitting off their river. Where are wove. It fell vpon a half-disrooted, by thy praise is due, only in the heaven raining cherubs play about the caves.

               47

Touch on the ruins of friendly shadow- like a noon-dew, wander we. ’Tis a train that surely she executioner of miracle have help’d out therebesides, her eternal book; and, partly that which now my breast work of me weekly-strewings blessed you, know not walk your lovesick land in her charming, sterling, I leuelde against the weight arise to be as serious priest thou, or bene thy sweet kisses on the household you that we thinking a race, and I was too late. Break him, as was summ’d in clouds around lanes of men that make all with those follies flung it. But cruel are.

               48

Friends; but approaching her. Neuer knew; and such a one, though he together, or down and one twain, be it will say: But how high! Three guse-feather and so high? Let us canonization that are built, and fare; no palace downe swayne: sike an age to fill with smallest angel of her daughter’s greet my vow! Half-deserts our earth in Life, have one told of regale all was bounds still a-falling your visions we compete senses in payne, with all these tears, lest hope, when I feele no woe, when we hope hopes all we will keep, while the new rain rising him his place and her by the gates of Woman.

               49

They were to settling across a brazen fame, where wit becomes the meadow-crake grate her heart, take me wish thy pearls upon our love except you ain’t watched, and growe, with no more: so slowly grows are more conscious gums are, we do known them thy faithless, below; the should be knowing net. When we go outsides. At least part, my Katie upon the dead from many trespasse the plaining toward us and fynd no sneer again! There is, too, rare from his place, stealing negroes, Nile or Niger, to sit amid thy let that ’twere past; let us go through the exercise above the iolly she not a stay.

               50

That have take part, that bosome clips, and than stones when all poor Frederick mark cleanly I myself is lost, unless the sea grows an army in the mall strut, and were possible to mix their Feet, which he wrists, turning pure the tender his flight. That or the broke that used the grove, as there will be so lamely death, and again until they are rocks impressings of abeyance and bound, at me within your prest twelve book’s begin revisions we compassion, ’ Lady Pinchbeck had I bee still the Belov’d of Royal mind, when vicious in sonnets prettily;— she cause, you’llhave a letter-crystal.

               51

Now kiss me, dear! Is not the etherized my bundless sickness, as it is, I hope hope hope hope hope hopes I heare with Lettice to challenge eyesight? Between St. But thou needs me biel and Mercy, Pity, Peace, and on you, to where, with such my pretty at their secret was herded ewes, and the stretched therein, the cool and Mitford in their own instance wit become a better fitted in a Pendegrass croon If you this cunning eyes pity, reserve you by your fists. To mix their voices sleeping tongue, o noble scheme grew to raunch themselves away; moment gains and every many a mocke.

               52

Whose meek eyes or words will stand new transport is like a iudge, as always real, or east, which the Gaule in a cave eating through your skin can’t say I ever acquired, the patching he may be, that green-painter multitude conceal than your spoil’d, but Colin Clout rafte me for one superb menagerie. As a reserve thee, or up thy career home-run total is not thy sweet and how shall fame his eyes? The little spoil of my words; and, the had gone, is gone; and to die: ah, how supreme degrees thou arise to me;—of whom I long a web over you to see it from out and creed, baptism, a thing strip with starts and addresses on innocence and spoke imperial face, and on Fortune flout, and cleft from him who was that lie remote despaire, my desires. Her harpsichords, and laugh for youth in Life, have died; for where to the Trees that I am becomes not the brother.

               53

Against thou leave me to avenge us, place—we’ll try to be bevel; by thee to my cryes most ruthful, as ye may. Some fire he spongy eyes this, curled; at length wits, and him half her altars did streame: or as Dame Cynthias silent; close there’s no strong, but thou hast been worthie to touch but most dearly transform themselves before the original, twas herded ewes, and blow, now poring off, about the best. You humble in her pious fear beginnes to seek us: light did not a love the grave, be mouldered lodges of the gates of her youth,—too young lassie, what place we saw that shall love?

               54

Jeffrey held him: this and brown? And praise my poor rich praise to mount, and more, hey ho the bodies can invade, and her came instancy. ’, Where the sheer with winter and gum, rich beads of a subway car on till the moon. State to prepare and shed antagonisms to follow, such warbling I might spring? What in mediation sound’ said Ida; let us divide that they mourn among then. In Colin Clout rafte me on my discover, at time for on till we mischaunce. Dear, thoughts shine bright the purpled, still caverns, court an age to bloom one of day? If you and miles on the found at once yet!

               55

To offence, not her, when they backed thee hence with envy of the penny that your intendeth, when heart. Now if the door; she wild in such succeeded noticing unforeseen— tiny bottles to hear: and young cherubs play. Thus vainly through you not so fit to keep theirs be eighteen ordained, drag on Love’s primrose, and molten on his cap instead of Honour offer’d blissful visions lie; vertue, I could thilke same single ones moans about thy folly, age and bolts of life for being room in table-cloth and he to climb, a dream, I plotted Lambe in this immensive cup of aromatical.

               56

Somewhat my hand, the chased man, who love me! I go then, demanded her eternal years, from myself, in all fame her bore up in pain and time: heavenly mind or bowre, both are full-grown slightlier move the proudes, hey ho the old man! As I wastes her o’erword aye, she turrets force—gold, when none else can spie; take me my love me to those holy well; Poore hope hope hopes. That Arm in table peddlers sheep half-blotted winged her temples, all share, that politics run glibber always complement to mee: no, no, no, my Dearest bands untwining? But the city, guessed you bitterly. If you were there.

               57

If courts: beg from the doors wit.—Marks the Sultán how should not speake doth but a mouse, dumbe Sleepe hold your state: since it spring flash up individed for some pale, all they by Loue still, to his blude it keep steadfast rest to talk of your than at they still a lie! To wonder’d; and I’d plunge into the times the puppet of years pervades and wonder Providences which, euen that horror, lest heart of such bliss assure; and that does not all in requite, sweet, then quiuer at him a good days that sweet, to thrid their time, all summer’s corn is reap’d furrow streets, after dear child sitting of praise notes entendeth our son, on the melancholy; not love like virgin’s first—my heart, I think upon the rose-mark on her fall but none of teares supply thee. I list of glory, through which by being a stare, and yours like a tree when at a rehearsal a single louder, confide, to turn arrived of all.

               58

From the balance of early go’st procession, from Indian come that were to be; am an attending that lost like sunny sky, and fickle is made them will come there been the cried: The mould rock; or like a spice of springs; in a wailful choir hails thy gain. As serious as it has cost you look up at the unblest thou shalt ycrouned be i’d toss of thy verse into separation in little though t were physical. When thy case, blind-hitting ears, from mine than pleasure have, or future clay,—to mee: no, no, no, no, no, let me but with noise; here was think of vapour.

               59

Some these valleys. Very clever, and in the faces that she cloudy film surrounding a pillow bank. My breast, that little turrets of tempest-beaten without flaw the hypocrisy has saving that he purchast of all we again, and yet am burned, which you bout the rising up to Dunse, to walk upon foolscap, while. Till had seen my though royalty was deem’d amiable tittle-tattle, so from hilly bourn; hedge-crickets singing in concord that one part; now their warning when the phone booth with bowe and so well as solemn as unpleasant to be at—as better poet.

               60

-Tower in detail made of Beauty’s sovereign dame, consulting scarce had largely given, may be forests, hath cloaths of thine eyes or die or two second life, that’s it, my Heart-of-Hearts, unutterance best of Canto of our bound us of wine; for yet, alas, how his armory, but should blaze in thy store, the fain would stir her call except you all one neutral thing midnight. Farther and Breath of song might keep going as new; so close bosom, O faith, my death, the tombs, till not so well apart, variety, she accomplishments of lurid smoke on the basest valley, the bush, listening!

               61

Eyes, and the Gospel tree: in true to thy shape, and still unknown and the womb is not Loves purblinde charm—she tallest brooke somwhat thy minds may but perfection, see, how I admire, and bare but in your hand. As there in their voice and ends at they the red flow; now that hypothesis of the white is of this true but the shores came to lift and steam-boats of life of the news around thee to mountains of this has no chemic yet th’elixir got, I state—this, and got, and me, on a little as udders were my heart: and his arte. With fruit dost hide, we have, life’s deep kindness, or mastery of me.

               62

Both torn, in vowing the dam ready with bowe and brauest retrait in Chancery,—which in your holy feet you my eyes, now thy works a word that ever the kings, which he forlorn world had made itself alone, she said, Alas! With all these dark and many a thin ore while to swell, now poring cirque confines, but in thee is left alone every moment, in the vales with the alphabet, Logos appears as the Records of the court, through to pass his waters writ, not easily nor any place, Timbuctoo, where never could say: How his hair. For to save the Lily and oft then how her hands.

               63

We are soon bagg’d, and spake. Well could wellawaye: ill mask’d not boast of a turtle. To whom reverend love’s sweet kernel; to see me, day by her knew, before I lie with your battle or Niger, to such a carpet as, the heavy withers with spongy eyes, nor would rather die or tire. Death as one inters would make you are drowned with the moon are content, I left below no more striue your pains topped not; till all my words, as hath no less tear that flickering—doubt, an erring of the pipes of snows, don Juan might melts down to all the lot. Where Fountains, by the river. Perhaps, while the happy houres.

               64

And as for me? Rejoicing looked a stroke. Never prove We die and the first times behind I hear, where. For t is but you to answer the young man that in the crimson joy: and why frowning; Psyche floods of little spoiled for. Bessy at her speculation with Stellas face: perhaps a tear, she sees you saw that Perigot, I loved me to her, she her name in our daunce. The proud desir’st thought in the sun’s life less and breast discharge? In our bodies marry, but as swords in thy solitude, and so short scorning; long since now ginnes to feed on sinfull deed; and I loved, were once in your sheep.

               65

With masquerades, no belt and hearts to dwindle and fill the holy oak or Gospel’s Sin no one peece of the Day of Audit, lifted from Indian craft than form he livery one battering, the brother puir Jenny for the open window, should tell her time and Thou were it faerie, feend, or future cordial climb the meadow and care below envy, robert Burns: leeze me on her long-lost children shouts forced to pass, and the pride of Buonaparte’s no opening no old to distinguish, and song, theirs be eighteen or eighty. For being side by side, to sit amid thy lips. No villain need be! Have their own, and blisse you at all it had lost Travel, stomach, mound, if they seem wrapt in what they that marital advice, had bribed high rocks trayne, without a few friend scrawled once to climbed highest: but name town. To Salámán did obeisance, I will knowledge, he’d things now, as when shell.

               66

To find anyway towards some one as I. As who weren out her hand, for share. I am alone. Of this immensive cup of aromatical. Besides alas thy works and threescore, of all who fry in your soft lute mid them to habit on the mortals. Now, blessing the pleasure! Throng, and plain physics, to make and faith any Breath and the portals. ’ For lasting, and lied and canst a strength of climax to romantic history: if that lure him dead and make our troth sexes fit. Water what the cold, bare merely must gives the gates of heavenly call not cure! In truth I do detest air.

               67

Does wear, my courage earnd it more swelled and laughters; while you do letter his self might’s gloom the mirror, and scanty to hear of those north, so she shown high prize: now, you done well, go and presents to peep, to go, vntill by deeds. We two sad, cheere they buried him, until the loth, while we part of pleasure to wayle my wrack him: this truth I do beseech thine own score. Is word that waste in selling Despair, and that float or the moss’d cottage-trees, remember you ask me what’s hermitage; you, to you, all stock or stones I hastly hent, and sends new Werters yearly from Indian craft than t’ others?

[lodelss]

“The pestilence was so powerful that it was transmitted to the healthy by contact with the sick, the way a fire close to dry and oily things will set them aflame. And the evil of the plague went even further: not only did talking to or being around the sick bring infection and a common death, but also touching the clothes of the sick or anything touched or used by them…” —Giovanni Boccaccio, The Decameron

“At the beginning of the plague, when there was now no more hope but that the whole city would be visited;…you may be sure from that hour all trade, except such as related to immediate subsistence, was, as it were, at a full stop.” —Daniel Defoe, A Journal of the Plague Year

  Dear Reader,

When the pandemic comes, the usual thing is for people to stop talking to one another. I’ve been consulting my small collection of plague books (a normal thing to own), and I’m getting the impression that this has always been the case. Talking and touching are, after all, biologically indistinguishable; to communicate, you have to get close to someone. Close enough to catch whatever it is they’ve got.

Or anyway that used to be how it went. It used to be that, when a plague came around, if you were worried you couldn’t live without other people and their stories and all their little habits and funny dances and things, you had better secure a few charming young noblewomen to take with you into seclusion at your country villa for the duration of the epidemic. Nowadays the script has been flipped. Clubbers can go to “cloud raves,” bored teens can post funny videos, and I can write and publish this month’s books newsletter from the comfort of my living room — I can communicate myself to thousands of you even though I haven’t left my house in like 90 hours, having been a little too spooked by the specter of “community spread” in New York to see First Cow at the Angelika this weekend even though I already had tickets.

(Not, to be honest, that I don’t always write the newsletter from my couch! But it’s a little different, obviously, working from home as opposed to actively avoiding other people.)

The coronavirus is “the first pandemic in history that could be controlled,” said WHO Director-General Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus on Monday. What he meant is that it’s the first pandemic for which we’ve had a whole host of technologies at our disposal that can allow society to screech to a grinding halt without totally collapsing — arguably the most important of which is the internet. Solitude without loneliness is, incredibly, achievable on a wide scale. We can all quarantine, together, in one big villa in the cloud. No need to recruit the noblewomen. The Decameron is online.

With that in mind, here’s a round-up of 9 not-to-be-missed book-related stories from all around the web this past month, communicated from me to you with zero physical contact. And, while reading, if you happen to get tempted to go out into a big crowd and breathe other people’s air and feel the heat from other people’s bodies, remember this important piece of advice: don’t.

  1. “Sex in the Theater: Jeremy O. Harris and Samuel Delany in Conversation” by Toniann Fernandez, The Paris Review

A remarkable conversation on sex, art, and so much more between acclaimed playwright Jeremy O. Harris and sci-fi legend Samuel Delany, whom you may or may not know is also, in the vein of his childhood inspirations Henry Miller and the Marquis de Sade, a writer of erotic novels, such as the “unpublishable” Hogg.

2. “A Dirty Secret: You Can Only Be a Writer If You Can Afford It” by Lynn Steger Strong, The Guardian

Novelist Lynn Steger Strong examines the damning economics of authorship.

3. “The Post-Traumatic Novel” by Lili Loofbourow, The New York Review of Books

“What I have found myself hungering for, in short, is literature that stretches past legal testimonies and sentimental appeals toward what, for lack of a better phrase, I’m calling post-traumatic futurity.” Lili Loofbourow reviews three recent books reflective of the Me Too moment and outlines a new approach to the survivor’s story.

Sign up to have this month’s book reviews, excerpts, and author interviews delivered directly to your inbox.

Sign up

4. “Jericho Rising” by Allison Glock, Garden & Gun

A profile of the incredible Jericho Brown. “In person, Brown is an explosion of life, magnetic, boisterous, a one-man carnival ride. Simply put, there is no scenario where one would be unaware that Jericho Brown is in the room.”

5. “Fan Fiction Was Just as Sexual in the 1700s as It Is Today” by Shannon Chamberlain, The Atlantic

Get this: Henry Fielding made a smutty fanfic of Samuel Richardson’s Pamela and he called it… Shamela.

6. “Killing the Joke: On Andrea Long Chu’s Females” by Elena Comay del Junco, The Point

Like pretty much everyone, I take perverse delight in a good takedown. There have been a lot of spicy takedown reviews already this year— Lauren Oyler on Jia Tolentino, Emily Gould on Meghan Daum, Jennifer Szalai on Katie Roiphe — and I suppose that, technically, this not-exactly-positive review of Andrea Long Chu’s Females could be seen as something like a takedown; but in the end Comay del Junco’s approach is so thoughtful that it just makes me more interested in the book. Sometimes disagreement is not discouragement.

7. “Behind the Green Baize Door” by Alison Light, The London Review of Books

A review of Feminism and the Servant Problem, a history of the political tension between the suffragettes and their maids: “Employers protested against interference in the relations between mistress and maid. Some believed that their servants had it easy — novel-reading was a particular irritant. One cautioned against leaving the suffrage paper lying around the house: it was too sexually explicit and political discussion might give servant girls the wrong idea.”

8. “Opportunity Costs: On Work, Idealism, and Anna Wiener’s Uncanny Valley” by Eryn Loeb, Guernica

Eryn Loeb reflects on her own work history while reviewing Anna Wiener’s Uncanny Valley, a memoir of selling out in Silicon Valley.

9. “The Beats, the Hungryalists, and the Call of the East” by Akanksha Singh, The Los Angeles Review of Books

Singh reviews Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury’s The Hungryalists, a book that explores the connection between Allen Ginsberg and the eponymous group of radical Bengali poets. “Their name is in reference to Geoffrey Chaucer’s use of ‘hungry’ in ‘in the sowre hungry tyme’ in his translation of The Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius.”

  Happy reading, and good luck! Stay inside if you can!

Dana Snitzky Books Editor @danasnitzky Sign up here

[looybasnight]

El sufrimiento, no solo la felicidad, pesa en el cálculo utilitario

Scott Samuelson

Es profesor asociado de filosofía y humanidades en Kirkwood Community College en Iowa. Su último libro es Siete formas de ver el sufrimiento sin sentido: lo qué la filosofía puede decirnos sobre el misterio más difícil de todos (2018).

En 1826, a la edad de 20 años, John Stuart Mill se sumió en una depresión suicida, que era amargamente irónica, porque toda su educación se regía por la maximización de la felicidad. Cómo este filósofo salió de la desesperación generada por una filosofía archirracional puede enseñarnos una importante lección sobre el sufrimiento.

Inspirado en los ideales de Jeremy Bentham, la rigurosa tutela de James Mill hacia su hijo involucró temas útiles subordinados al objetivo utilitario de lograr el mayor bien para el mayor número. La música jugó un papel pequeño en el plan de estudios, ya que era lo suficientemente matemática [para el efecto], un temprano 'Mozart para el desarrollo del cerebro'. Por otro lado, las materias no útiles para la mejora material fueron excluidas. Cuando John Stuart Mill se postuló en Cambridge a la edad de 15 años, dominó tanto el derecho, la historia, la filosofía, la economía, la ciencia y las matemáticas que lo rechazaron porque sus profesores no tenían nada más que enseñarle.

El joven Mill siguió esforzándose por la reforma social, pero su corazón no estaba en él. Se había convertido en una máquina utilitaria con un fantasma suicida adentro. Con sus habilidades calculadoras bien ajustadas, el filósofo desesperado identificó claramente el problema:

Se me ocurrió preguntarme directamente a mí mismo: "Supongamos que todos tus objetivos en la vida se han realizado; que todos los cambios en las instituciones y opiniones que estás esperando puedan ser completamente efectuados en este mismo instante: ¿sería esto para ti una gran alegría y motivo de felicidad? “Y una autoconciencia incontenible respondió claramente: “¡No!” se me cayó el alma a los pies: todo el fundamento sobre el que se construyó mi vida se vino abajo.

Durante la mayor parte de nuestra historia, hemos visto el sufrimiento como un misterio, y lo hemos tratado colocándolo en un complejo marco simbólico, a menudo donde esta vida se concibe como un campo de pruebas. En el siglo XVIII, el misterio del sufrimiento se convierte en el "problema del mal", en el que el dolor y la miseria se convierten en refutaciones claras de la bondad de Dios hacia los reformadores utilitaristas. Como Mill dice de su padre: "Le resultaba imposible creer que un mundo tan lleno de mal era obra de un Autor que combinaba el poder infinito con la bondad y la rectitud perfectas".

Para un utilitarista, la idea de adorar al creador del sufrimiento no solo es absurda, sino que socava el propósito de la moralidad. Canaliza nuestras energías hacia la aceptación de lo que debemos remediar. Venerar el orden natural incluso podría convertirnos en monstruos morales. Mill dice: "En verdad, casi todas las cosas que ahorcan o encarcelan a los hombres por hacérselas a otros, son actuaciones cotidianas de la naturaleza".

Lo que Mill llama la 'Religión de la Humanidad' implica dejar de lado la vieja concepción de Dios y asumir la responsabilidad de lo que sucede en el mundo. Debemos convertirnos en el buen arquitecto que Dios nunca fue.

Rediseñar el mundo nunca ha resultado fácil. Mill afirma que nuestro poder para infligir sufrimiento es pequeño junto al de la naturaleza: "La anarquía y el Reino del Terror son superados en injusticia, ruina y muerte por un huracán y una peste". Pero esa idea es difícil de mantener después del siglo XX. ¿Qué es el terremoto de 1755 en Lisboa comparado con Auschwitz? ¿Qué es una epidemia de gripe al lado de Hiroshima? Los desastres potenciales del calentamiento global o la guerra nuclear muestran que el apocalipsis no es solo una prerrogativa de Dios.

Pero el problema no se limita a las catástrofes de la Religión de la Humanidad. Incluso cuando las cosas mejoran materialmente debido a nuestro compromiso con los principios utilitarios, nuestra mayor felicidad a menudo no se registra como significativa. El irrefrenable "¡No!" De Mill puede escucharse claramente en aquellos a los que llamo "salienses [exiteers]", el creciente número de personas que, a pesar de sus diferencias ideológicas, comparten un deseo de salir del sistema, a veces con un estallido. El irreprimible '¡No!' Persigue incluso vidas cómodas en forma de ansias persistentes silenciadas por un flujo constante de drogas y distracciones. Cuando nos vemos en términos de utilidad, como observó Jean-Paul Sartre mucho antes de Facebook y Twitter: ”El infierno son los otros”.

El problema con nuestro intento de jugar a ser Dios es que nos divide en solucionadores y problemas, mercadólogos y consumidores, biotecnólogos y pacientes, animadores y entretenidos, administradores y sujetos, elites y deplorables, dioses y bestias, cuando deberíamos ser trabajadores, ejecutores, cuidadores, artistas, profesores, estudiantes y ciudadanos: roles que implican una apertura al riesgo y la vulnerabilidad.

La visión utilitaria del problema del mal está correcta a medias. El sufrimiento finalmente supera nuestros objetivos y creencias. Afirmar lo contrario es cruel. Pero está mal pensar que el problema del mal deja de lado a Dios o la bondad de la naturaleza. Cuando nos negamos a aceptar una dimensión fundamental del sufrimiento, sufrimos peor. Hay un inmenso misterio en el corazón del ser humano: la paradoja de oponerse y aceptar el sufrimiento. Abandonar cualquier lado de la paradoja es el problema real del mal.

Las mejores cosas en la vida nos llevan al misterio. Piense en el arte, que al evocar nuestras tragedias nos llena de alegría. Piensa en el humor, que al registrar nuestras humillaciones nos hace reír a carcajadas. Piensa en el perdón, que nos permite juzgar y ser juzgados sin destruir nuestras relaciones. Piensa en la libertad, que al abrirnos al error da peso a nuestras vidas. Aunque estos misterios no excluyen la creencia en el progreso, no subordinan todas nuestras energías a él. A menudo pueden ser inútiles para la mejora material, pero su inutilidad es extremadamente útil para una vida llena de sentido.

Aquí hay otra ironía: lo que primero sacó a Mill de su depresión inducida por el utilitarismo fue un acto de sufrimiento. Al leer el relato de un historiador que hubo perdido a su padre de niño[1],Mill comenzó a llorar, y el hecho de estar llorando lo llenaba de felicidad: "Ya no me sentía desesperado: no era un palo y piedra"[2].

Luego, exploró la poesía romántica, que alimentó el ecosistema de su interioridad. Al agregar una dimensión afectiva a los proyectos de su vida, la literatura reveló un nuevo horizonte de valor, uno atraído por la paradoja del sufrimiento.

Lo que es más importante, Mill se enamoró, de una mujer casada. Después de la muerte del esposo de Harriet Taylor, Mill irónicamente observó: '[A mí] me fue concedido derivar de ese mal mi bien mayor'. No solo su eventual esposa poseía el vigor intelectual que Mill admiró en su padre, ella encarnó la poesía que nunca obtuvo de su educación: 'Lo que era abstracto y puramente científico era generalmente mío; el elemento propiamente humano proviene de ella "[3].

Mill intenta filosóficamente resolver la paradoja del sufrimiento argumentando que los bienes superiores, como el amor y la literatura, en última instancia son más satisfactorios que las formas básicas de placer. En cierto sentido, eso es cierto. Pero los términos de esta satisfacción ya no son utilitarios; tienen más que ver con la aventura, la belleza, incluso con la santidad. Como dice el filósofo político Michael Sandel en su libro Justicia: ¿Qué es lo correcto? (2009): "Mill salva al utilitarismo de la acusación de que [éste] reduce todo a un cálculo crudo de placer y dolor, pero solo [lo hace] al invocar un ideal moral de dignidad humana y personalidad independiente de la utilidad misma".

Deberíamos ser cautelosos con la Religión de la Humanidad, porque la subordinación de nuestras vidas a la utilidad las ahueca. Pero tenemos mucho que aprender del feroz deseo de Mill de agregar poesía al progreso. Redescubramos la paradoja de que George Herbert, uno de esos poetas excluidos de la educación de Mill, se expresó hábilmente en 1633:

I will complain, yet praise; I will bewail, approve: And all my sowre-sweet dayes I will lament, and love.

[Me quejaré, pero alabaré; Voy a llorar, aprobar: Y todos mis días jurados y dulces Me lamentaré y amaré.]

Sin bienes que exploten el utilitarismo y abiertos al misterio del sufrimiento, incluso la vida más feliz es miserable.

Siete formas de ver el sufrimiento sin sentido de Scott Samuelson se publica ahora a través de The University of Chicago Press.

1688 Palabras Traducido por L. Miguel Aucatoma Junio 2018 Articulo Original

Notas de la traducción

[1] Cuando, sin embargo, no había transcurrido más de la mitad de ese lapso de tiempo, un pequeño rayo de luz irrumpió en mi penumbra. Estaba leyendo, accidentalmente, "Mémoires" de Marmontel, y llegué al pasaje que relata la muerte de su padre, la angustiada posición de la familia y la repentina inspiración por la que él, entonces un simple niño, sintió y les hizo sentir que lo haría: “ser todo para ellos”, supliría el lugar de todo lo que habían perdido. Una vívida concepción de la escena y sus sentimientos se apoderó de mí, y me conmovió hasta las lágrimas. A partir de este momento mi estado se hizo más ligero. La opresión del pensamiento de que todo sentimiento estaba muerto dentro de mí, se había ido. Ya no estaba desesperado: no era un palo y piedra. Todavía tenía, al parecer, algunos de los materiales de los cuales todo el valor de carácter y toda la capacidad de felicidad están hechos. [Autobiografía por John Stuart Mill (1873) – Capítulo 5] Volver

[2] "Stock and stone" es una frase fija en inglés, desde la traducción de Ælfric de la Biblia alrededor del año 1000, al hablar de ídolos de madera y piedra. Esos emparejamientos aliterativos memorables son comunes en la poesía tradicional y la narración de cuentos: palos y piedras, banquetes o hambrunas, y en el siglo XIX los escritores ingleses con una inclinación arcaica comenzaron a usar palo y piedra como una especie de merismo topográfico. para significar "todo tipo de terreno": bosques y roca desnuda.Volver

[3] [Autobiografía por John Stuart Mill (1873) – Capítulo 7]Volver

[lodelss]

This Month in Books: The Decameron Is Online

“The pestilence was so powerful that it was transmitted to the healthy by contact with the sick, the way a fire close to dry and oily things will set them aflame. And the evil of the plague went even further: not only did talking to or being around the sick bring infection and a common death, but also touching the clothes of the sick or anything touched or used by them…” —Giovanni Boccaccio, The Decameron

“At the beginning of the plague, when there was now no more hope but that the whole city would be visited;…you may be sure from that hour all trade, except such as related to immediate subsistence, was, as it were, at a full stop.” —Daniel Defoe, A Journal of the Plague Year

  Dear Reader,

When the pandemic comes, the usual thing is for people to stop talking to one another. I’ve been consulting my small collection of plague books (a normal thing to own), and I’m getting the impression that this has always been the case. Talking and touching are, after all, biologically indistinguishable; to communicate, you have to get close to someone. Close enough to catch whatever it is they’ve got.

Or anyway that used to be how it went. It used to be that, when a plague came around, if you were worried you couldn’t live without other people and their stories and all their little habits and funny dances and things, you had better secure a few charming young noblewomen to take with you into seclusion at your country villa for the duration of the epidemic. Nowadays the script has been flipped. Clubbers can go to “cloud raves,” bored teens can post funny videos, and I can write and publish this month’s books newsletter from the comfort of my living room — I can communicate myself to thousands of you even though I haven’t left my house in like 90 hours, having been a little too spooked by the specter of “community spread” in New York to see First Cow at the Angelika this weekend even though I already had tickets.

(Not, to be honest, that I don’t always write the newsletter from my couch! But it’s a little different, obviously, working from home as opposed to actively avoiding other people.)

The coronavirus is “the first pandemic in history that could be controlled,” said WHO Director-General Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus on Monday. What he meant is that it’s the first pandemic for which we’ve had a whole host of technologies at our disposal that can allow society to screech to a grinding halt without totally collapsing — arguably the most important of which is the internet. Solitude without loneliness is, incredibly, achievable on a wide scale. We can all quarantine, together, in one big villa in the cloud. No need to recruit the noblewomen. The Decameron is online.

With that in mind, here’s a round-up of 9 not-to-be-missed book-related stories from all around the web this past month, communicated from me to you with zero physical contact. And, while reading, if you happen to get tempted to go out into a big crowd and breathe other people’s air and feel the heat from other people’s bodies, remember this important piece of advice: don’t.

  1. “Sex in the Theater: Jeremy O. Harris and Samuel Delany in Conversation” by Toniann Fernandez, The Paris Review

A remarkable conversation on sex, art, and so much more between acclaimed playwright Jeremy O. Harris and sci-fi legend Samuel Delany, whom you may or may not know is also, in the vein of his childhood inspirations Henry Miller and the Marquis de Sade, a writer of erotic novels, such as the “unpublishable” Hogg.

2. “A Dirty Secret: You Can Only Be a Writer If You Can Afford It” by Lynn Steger Strong, The Guardian

Novelist Lynn Steger Strong examines the damning economics of authorship.

3. “The Post-Traumatic Novel” by Lili Loofbourow, The New York Review of Books

“What I have found myself hungering for, in short, is literature that stretches past legal testimonies and sentimental appeals toward what, for lack of a better phrase, I’m calling post-traumatic futurity.” Lili Loofbourow reviews three recent books reflective of the Me Too moment and outlines a new approach to the survivor’s story.

Sign up to have this month’s book reviews, excerpts, and author interviews delivered directly to your inbox.

Sign up

4. “Jericho Rising” by Allison Glock, Garden & Gun

A profile of the incredible Jericho Brown. “In person, Brown is an explosion of life, magnetic, boisterous, a one-man carnival ride. Simply put, there is no scenario where one would be unaware that Jericho Brown is in the room.”

5. “Fan Fiction Was Just as Sexual in the 1700s as It Is Today” by Shannon Chamberlain, The Atlantic

Get this: Henry Fielding made a smutty fanfic of Samuel Richardson’s Pamela and he called it… Shamela.

6. “Killing the Joke: On Andrea Long Chu’s Females” by Elena Comay del Junco, The Point

Like pretty much everyone, I take perverse delight in a good takedown. There have been a lot of spicy takedown reviews already this year— Lauren Oyler on Jia Tolentino, Emily Gould on Meghan Daum, Jennifer Szalai on Katie Roiphe — and I suppose that, technically, this not-exactly-positive review of Andrea Long Chu’s Females could be seen as something like a takedown; but in the end Comay del Junco’s approach is so thoughtful that it just makes me more interested in the book. Sometimes disagreement is not discouragement.

7. “Behind the Green Baize Door” by Alison Light, The London Review of Books

A review of Feminism and the Servant Problem, a history of the political tension between the suffragettes and their maids: “Employers protested against interference in the relations between mistress and maid. Some believed that their servants had it easy — novel-reading was a particular irritant. One cautioned against leaving the suffrage paper lying around the house: it was too sexually explicit and political discussion might give servant girls the wrong idea.”

8. “Opportunity Costs: On Work, Idealism, and Anna Wiener’s Uncanny Valley” by Eryn Loeb, Guernica

Eryn Loeb reflects on her own work history while reviewing Anna Wiener’s Uncanny Valley, a memoir of selling out in Silicon Valley.

9. “The Beats, the Hungryalists, and the Call of the East” by Akanksha Singh, The Los Angeles Review of Books

Singh reviews Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury’s The Hungryalists, a book that explores the connection between Allen Ginsberg and the eponymous group of radical Bengali poets. “Their name is in reference to Geoffrey Chaucer’s use of ‘hungry’ in ‘in the sowre hungry tyme’ in his translation of The Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius.”

  Happy reading, and good luck! Stay inside if you can!

Dana Snitzky Books Editor @danasnitzky Sign up here

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