#think write speak

[doloresdisparue]

Since I've had some clown in my mentions claiming Nabokovs intent was to present Dolores as equally culpable echoing the good old "but what about her TEEN SEDUCTRESS powers to CONTROL MEN" let's collect some of what Vladimir "Strong Opinions" Nabokov said about the book and Dolly in particular:

"Some simply haven’t read the book or don’t understand it. It is not obscene; it has none of the dirt of many so-called realistic modern novels. “Most critics have failed to stress the pathetic side,” said Mrs. Nabokov. “It’s really a tragic story. Here, in the hands of this maniac is this poor girl—.” “And a very ordinary girl—” Nabokov put in…." (What Hath Lolita Wrought? Ithaca Author Distressed by Some Reactions,” Elmira Telegram, Dec. 14, 1958. )

"In Lolita, who’s the most likable person for you? It’s Lolita. It’s with her that the good reader should become friends. American readers, generally, talk of her as an unbearable kid, but you pity her as you would pity any kid. There’s something touching in her." (“While Lolita Travels Around the World, the Entomologist Nabokov and the Agronomist Robbe-Grillet Exchange Pawns on the Literary Chessboard”), Arts (Paris), October 28–Nov. 3, 1959, 4.) 

"She came entirely out of my imagination. Critics, in general, find her odious; I pity her: an orphan, alone in life with a demanding forty-year-old. When I wrote about her last meeting with Humbert, I cried, like Flaubert at the death of Madame Bovary. “She cries every night, and the critics don’t hear her sobs,” said Mrs. Nabokov." (“Nabokov Without Lolita”, Nouvelles littéraires, Oct. 29, 1959, 1–2.)

"But she’s also a very touching character. Toward the end of the book, the reader and the author pity her, this poor child who has been sacrificed on the altar of motels. It’s very sad." (“The Good Mr. Nabokov: Lolita’s Father Forsakes Nymphets for the Sake of Pushkin and Robbe-Grillet”), L’Express, Nov. 5, 1959, 32–33.)

"Is Lolita amoral? On the contrary. It has a very moral moral: don’t harm children. Now, Humbert does [...] And Lolita, isn’t she a victim and not a little slattern….After all, haven’t I indicated the evil of all this, in giving Lolita a stillborn child?" (“Conversation, Vladimir Nabokov: He Likes Humor, Tennis and Proust. He Hates Communists, Sade, Freud”),  L’Express, Jan. 26, 1961. )

"How, then, do you explain the “Lolita cult”? How do you explain all these girls who move, act, dress, and talk like Lolita? I wouldn’t know. Perhaps it is a result of the way the popular press has distorted my poor Lo. It has come up with something that has absolutely nothing to do with the book or Lolita the character. Lolita is the story of a sad little girl in a very sad world. The “Lolita cult” is something completely different." (“Love Today: How the Author of Lolita Sees It”), L’Europeo, June 23, 1966, 28–33. )

"Humbert Humbert is a vain and cruel wretch who manages to appear “touching.” That epithet, in its true, tear-iridized sense, can only apply to my poor little girl." (Paris Review, The Art of Fiction No. 40, Issue 41, Summer-Fall 1967)

"Lolita isn’t a perverse young girl. She’s a poor child who has been debauched and whose senses never stir under the caresses of the foul Humbert Humbert, whom she asks once, “how long did [he] think we were going to live in stuffy cabins, doing filthy things together…? [...] It is equally interesting to dwell, as journalists say, on the problem of the inept degradation that the character of the nymphet Lolita, whom I invented in 1955, has undergone in the mind of the broad public. Not only has the perversity of this poor child been grotesquely exaggerated, but her physical appearance, her age, everything has been transformed by the illustrations in foreign publications. Girls of eighteen or more, sidewalk kittens, cheap models, or simple long-legged criminals, are baptized “nymphets” or “Lolitas” in news stories in magazines in Italy, France, Germany, etc.; and the covers of translations, Turkish or Arab, reach the height of ineptitude when they feature a young woman with opulent contours and a blond mane imagined by boobies who have never read my book. In reality Lolita is a little girl of twelve, whereas Humbert Humbert is a mature man, and it’s the abyss between his age and that of the little girl that produces the vacuum, the vertigo, the seduction of mortal danger. Secondly, it’s the imagination of the sad satyr that makes a magic creature of this little American schoolgirl, as banal and normal in her way as the poet manqué Humbert is in his. Outside the maniacal gaze of Humbert there is no nymphet. Lolita the nymphet exists only through the obsession that destroys Humbert. Here’s an essential aspect of a unique book that has been betrayed by a factitious popularity." (“Apostrophes: Bernard Pivot Meets Vladimir Nabokov”), live television interview, Antenne-2 (Paris), May 30, 1975.)

And let's close with my blog title:

"Lolita is an indictment of all the things it expresses. It is a pathetic book dealing with the plight of a child, a very ordinary little girl, caught up by a disgusting and cruel man….But of all my books, I like it the best. " (Author of Lolita Scoffs at Furore over His Novel,” Niagara Falls Gazette, Jan. 11, 1959, 10B.)

Thanks for coming to his TED Talk

[jelliclebellsthatjelliclesring]

I HATE HOW RIGHT HE WAS!!!

“Lolita isn’t a perverse young girl. She’s a poor child who has been debauched and whose senses never stir under the caresses of the foul Humbert Humbert, whom she asks once, ‘how long did [he] think we were going to live in stuffy cabins, doing filthy things together…?’ But to reply to your question: no, its success doesn’t annoy me, I am not like Conan Doyle, who out of snobbery or simple stupidity preferred to be known as the author of “The Great Boer War,” which he thought superior to his Sherlock Holmes. It is equally interesting to dwell, as journalists say, on the problem of the inept degradation that the character of the nymphet Lolita, whom I invented in 1955, has undergone in the mind of the broad public. Not only has the perversity of this poor child been grotesquely exaggerated, but her physical appearance, her age, everything has been transformed by the illustrations in foreign publications. Girls of eighteen or more, sidewalk kittens, cheap models, or simple long-legged criminals, are baptized “nymphets” or “Lolitas” in news stories in magazines in Italy, France, Germany, etc; and the covers of translations, Turkish or Arab, reach the height of ineptitude when they feature a young woman with opulent contours and a blonde mane imagined by boobies who have never read my book. In reality Lolita is a little girl of twelve, whereas Humbert Humbert is a mature man, and it’s the abyss between his age and that of the little girl that produces the vacuum, the vertigo, the seduction of mortal danger. Secondly, it’s the imagination of the sad satyr that makes a magic creature of this little American schoolgirl, as banal and normal in her way as the poet manqué Humbert is in his. Outside the maniacal gaze of Humbert there is no nymphet. Lolita the nymphet exists only through the obsession that destroys Humbert. Herein an essential aspect of a unique book that has been betrayed by a factitious popularity.”

— Vladimir Nabokov (tr. Brian Boyd), Apostrophes (1975)

[composeregg]

edit (10/23/2024) now that the poll is over: Original version, with 10 questions, from April 2023 here

And, given that the original is from April 2023, that means I can very easily say:

No, this was not an ISAT reference!

Just because I use parentheses and 2nd person pov and love the same concepts of what a time loop can do to a person doesn't mean it's ISAT

(Yes, I like ISAT, the original poll is why I was recommended the game! But if you look at the original, you can see all the origins of the options to choose from, including what spurred me on with the moss option from the replies)

If I were going to make something for ISAT, I would never be so vague, you can simply look at my ao3 for proof of that

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[abstractfrog]

Happy 1 year anniversary to Mr Sherlock Holmes! Here's a litttleee celebratory comic from me

[beetleandfox]

I love how unsanitized The Terror feels. Like there’s grime everywhere. You can tell those men smell bad. When they do surgery you can hear the bone being cut, when they get sick they look genuinely ill. The main character’s actor even has pockmarks, he LOOKS like he could be from the 1800s! And idk, I think it’s cool that we’re so aware of the characters’ carnal desires. They’re hungry, thirsty, freezing, etc, and it is so obvious that they have a body with needs!!

I think this also accounts for how horny the show feels, even though everyone is bundled up 90% of the time and there are no real romantic subplots. Besides the fact that it’s a very carnal show, it just has the intimacy and grime of true horniness. Is this thing on

[bluerosefox]

Her Astrophel and Sterling

hmmm

Hmmmmmmmm

You know what.

You know those AU's where the Batfam finds or learns about either hidden or thought to be dead Al Ghul Danny! with a deaged/daughter Dani (Ellie) (I should know, I created a few of those storylines) but what if, now hear me out, what if instead of them finding Danny first its Talia.

Do I want Talia discovering her thought to be dead son to be alive? Yes. Do I want her to find him while investigating Amity Park when the League gets reports of 'Lazarus creatures/water'? Yes.

DO I WANT HER TO KNOCK ON THE FENTON'S DOOR, fully ready to pretend/honey talk her way into the house to uncover what the Fenton's know, ONLY TO MEET A LITTLE ELLIE?!

YES.

Ellie whose eyes and hair look like a copy of her Beloved but she can see bits and pieces of herself as well. Talia knows the child in front of her was not fully her's though but everything makes sense when she hears a voice, a voice she hasn't heard in ages but as a mother just knows, speak out.

"Ellie! I thought I said do not answer the door my Sterling."

"But Daddy, yous was busy fighting the hotdoggys!"

Talia's eyes widen when she finally catches sight of familiar black hair and blue eyes.

and she could only lightly whisper a old nickname she hasn't dared uttered in ages, a name she secretly gave her son due to his love of the stars "Astrophel..."

[heph]

Elvish

[tea-cat-arts]

The childbearing pills haunt me and raise so many questions

[doloresdisparue]

lolita / ada or ardor / lina medina - wikipedia / vladimir nabokov - think, write, speak

[elumish]

I know that I am preaching to the anti-AI choir, but I genuinely believe that skills like summarizing, articulating, and refining an argument, engaging with existing research or information yourself, and going through the process of crafting materials are core skills for life but also for many careers, and outsourcing those degrades people's ability to think critically and engage with ideas.

Even ignoring the fact that generative AI is awful for the environment and based almost entirely in intellectual property theft and has a bunch of other ethical issues, using gen AI as a crutch will actually just make you worse at both engaging with life and doing many professional jobs.

But also, beyond this, you will benefit from actively engaging with research and the news and shaping, summarizing, and articulating arguments.

Can you read a piece of news or an article and understand the point it is making? Do you know how to identify the biases of the source? Do you know how to understand what you are reading in the context of that bias?

Can you shape an argument based on information you have engaged with? Can you validate that argument by seeking out additional relevant information? Can you describe that argument to someone who is familiar with the subject matter? Can you describe or summarize that argument to someone who is not familiar with the subject matter?

Can you articulate your point--whether it is an argument or just a question--in written format? Can you articulate it out loud? Do you know how to shape what you are expressing to a given audience?

Being able to articulate yourself clearly, in a logical structure that is based on verified evidence, is important for so much of life.

[datkat08]

Luffy, as blunt and oblivious as can be, shares his thoughts with no mind to how they may affect the people around him. “People” being Sanji, in this case.

Sanji let him stay in the kitchen while he made snacks for the crew because he promised to behave. Luffy watches from the dining table as Sanji slices into a fresh tangerine before speaking what’s on his mind.

“You know. Roronoa Sanji sounds pretty good.”

The cook nearly slices his finger off with how violently he jerks at that. He whirls around to face his mindless captain, knuckles turning white from his death grip on the knife. “I’m SORRY?”

Luffy doesn’t react. His tone remains even and thoughtful.

“Well you need a last name now, right? So take Zoro’s,” he says like it’s so obvious.

“Luffy, I can’t just—” he pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe Luffy just doesn’t understand it. It’s no fault of his, the cook supposes, considering his less-than-typical upbringing. He sighs, trying to ignore the burning of his cheeks.

“Luffy. Do you know why people take other people’s last names?”

He nods. “Of course. It’s because they love each other and want to get married, right?”

Sanji stops breathing. What the fuck. So Luffy knew the whole time and yet he still— so that means he thinks that he and Zoro should—

…Someone please just end him.

[letsplaythermalnuclearwar]

hey you know what would be like. the WORST possible thing? if no time had passed for mortals during God Games. if the entire time, Odysseus had just been frozen on that ledge. and at the start of the Vengeance Saga, Ody's still on the ledge. he looks to the skies, to the trees, out over the ocean. he looks for an owl with knowing eyes and strains to hear her voice over the waves, because surely, surely she'd come for him. the haven't spoken in nine years and he ruined whatever relationship they had when he stupidly, foolishly let the cyclops live, but she has to still care, right? she was his mentor. she was his patron. he meant something to her. he's sure of it

but she's not there. he waits, but she's not there. he closes his eyes, sparing himself the view, and steps off the ledge

and is saved by Hermes. and Odysseus briefly thinks that he has died, since Hermes escorts souls to the underworld. but Hermes assures him that, no, he's alive, Athena heard him, she bargained with Zeus, he can go home now. he can finally go home

his friend came through

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[gojonanami]

thinking about gojo asking you if you think you would be together in your other lifetimes and you say yes. and you are — he’s a model and you’re his photographer, he’s a prince and you’re his knight, he’s your actor husband and you’re his singer wife, and he’s your target and you’re his assassin—

and you are together in every life — one way or another — but in this life, you part, as you watch him fall to Sukuna.

and you wait for the next life, where you can finally be together.

[technically-human]

Boy Crystal and Niko..? And the sprites if you wanna.

Crystal (yes his name is still Crystal, although before getting his memories back, he assumed it to be Chris) and Jiro had a little cameo here. I'm glad they finally got their own piece!

Litty became Kingham and Kingham became Litty, but you wouldn't be able to tell anything has changed.

Ko-Fi