#woolf pack

[feminerds]

Page 1:

25 March 2023

First quarter of the year is about to draw to a close.

Same old bad brain, well if it isn't me breaking my own heaart. I wish I just didn't feel or process things, I do [sic] the way I do.

Always thinking 'About Adam'

"Hey Bird! I know the true name of god."

Without really thinking about it, I have started yelling this at wild animals that look at me. I think I say it because it's what I hear or feel when animals look at me. I'm curious if this is something I've seen in a film or picked up from somewhere, if feels affected, but I honestly cannot place it, or at least I cannot place it, to a place outside of me?

Mangawhai, Aotearoa

Do you suppose birds know about negative space and gaps and silences in the text? (This is kind of a joke about the QLD English syllabus in 2004)

Page 2:

21 March 2023

Solving <Laceration Gravity?

Solving Wobbly Stars

Gravity vs Yearning

An icon for the growing plurality of voices and perspectives? in STEM? In the world?

Lens and Light

This is kind of the main ideaa I've been noodling with for a[nother] zine I want to eventually make about the star as symbol. Like it's definitely cool and interesting that stars are one of the constants in all representational art. Like celestial bodies are one of the first things we record, as culture, as people, we see them and we want to draw them! Currently there is a trend or movement or feature of a lot of indie art in the late 2010/early 2020s to include twinkles or sparkling ornamentation in illustrations. Ornamentation, of course, is hardly new, and neither are stars in art (the seven sisters babyyyyyyy), but the twinkle style is kind of evolving at the moment. With what I recognise as a recent spike in representing the star/twinkle as irregular or wobbly. This is also an evolving aesthetic in many areas of contemporary life, I see it especially clearly in jewelry design right now. Previously stars were represented as point lights, and then regular radial point lights, not exclusively but predominantly. I think that the transition from point lights to regular radial point lights is related to increased access to lenses and viewing apparatus. The anime style four point twinkle, made enormously famous by shows like Sailor Moon, rose to its huge cultural status in lockstep with the deluge of space images from the Hubble Space Telescope (and other contemporary terrestrial telescopes which also featured photographic artifacts or diffraction patterns derived from the four struts used to support the primary mirror), which of course impacted contemporary artists. We are already beginning to see the impact of the James Webb Space Telescope in contemporary art/fashion/popular aesthetic. However I place the emergence of the "wobbly star"TM not solely on the shoulders of JWST, but on the subsequent realisation that the change in the star pattern from HST to JWST, broke the spell of the four point star as a given, the four point diffraction pattern for the first time since We started receiving space photographs was recognised as an artifact not a natural aspect of stars. Astronomers and Physicists stayed knowing this, of course, but we needed the images to change to know this - maybe that's true for them too?

Any way, this change in the image then supposes a new series of questions for us.

Where is the image constructed?

The Star itself? The collisions that create the photons? The distance the light traverses? The atmosphere it then travels through? The increasing molecular density that filters it? The lens that refocuses it? And then the lens that refocuses that? The housing of that lens, its shape, form and material? The sensor/s that captures the light? The codex used to record the data? Or the codex that in turn decodes this data into an image? The screen that projects it? The printer that produces it? The eye that captures that reflection? Or the mind that understands it?

How many lens known and unknown does light pass through before we recognise it as an image?

The wobbly or irregular star, in some ways implicates the 'suture lines' of the optical nerve, that to each person create a unique diffraction pattern, in each eye separately. It implicates the messiness of receiving an image, the unusually unique circumstances of receiving an image. I like to think of it as a sign or symbol of the beginning of understanding the necessity and value of diversity in STEM (maybe, at least I hope it is) and maybestars more broadly just in people. I think the wobbly star comes very specifically out of this moment, from modernity and identity politics and anime and space telescopes and instagram and printers and physicists, and that's all very exciting. I like when society sublimates a thing happening in many places into an aesthetic and a symbol. That stars can be so many things to so many people, points, like a star in many directions. To our diversity, but also to our sameness. That we all look up.

[sam1kath]

Raven Hair and Emerald Eyes

(book! Miss Peregrine x Fem! Reader)

I hope you'll enjoy it!! :D

You have been in the loop for many years now, yet you could still vividly remember the day you saw it for the first time. Stepping your foot on the island was no accident. You were a long time in search of a home, and when finally one day an ymbryne offered you a place as a sort of assistant, you couldn’t contain your excitement and hit the road as soon as you packed your only bag. However, there was one issue. You had a terrible sense of orientation, and the brief set of instructions about its location scared you. You trailed the island far and wide, getting lost on multiple occasions, yet you still couldn’t find the entrance.

One day, however, when you were once again unsuccessfully returning to the shore to catch the last ferry off the island, a tall blond girl about 17 stopped you with a smile.

“Hello, Miss Y/L/N. Miss Peregrine has been expecting you. Come with me.”

From that day on you became a new inhabitant of the 1940 Cairnholm loop. The children warmed up to you instantly, and even Enoch—who you later learnt didn’t usually extend this courtesy to just anyone—was delighted by your presence.

The headmistress and ymbryne of the loop, a woman of disting Victorian appearance and raven hair, greeted you with open arms, if not as familiarly, keeping the kind of professional distance you’d have with a new co-worker. Even after months of living there, it was always ‘Miss Y/L/N here’ and ‘Miss Y/L/N there’.

It was your 14th month in the loop that she finally proposed a first-name basis kind of relationship and this offer didn’t extend to situations in front of the children up until a few months ago.

The peregrine was a peculiar woman in many ways—she intrigued you—and you realised all too late that you were slowly falling for her. It was the way she smiled when she thought that no one was watching, how her eyes lit up when she taught the children, the way she would gently pull on the sleeves of her dresses when she was nervous, or the passion with which she fiercely protected her children whenever a policeman knocked on their door with a complaint.

With each day, you fell deeper and deeper into the tangled depths of affection, and that scared you.

One evening, you got into a passionate discussion about the passage of time and age, and she casually mentioned she was born in the late 1870s. At that time, you believed this knowledge was of no special meaning to you since you were used to the birthdates of people around you going as far back as the 1500s. But as your admiration grew, you realised that this information might just signify a problem.

You didn’t know a lot about history, but the topic of acceptance of homosexual people and relationships was something you were quite familiar with. The late 19th century certainly wasn’t a time when you could openly confess your love for another woman, and you feared that growing up in such a time, Alma might share the same convictions. If you weren’t hesitant about sharing your feelings before, you were surely not going to find it easy now, so you decided to test the waters first.

Finally, the perfect day arrived. The children were playing in the garden; the sun was just in the right spot in the sky, and you summoned the courage to bring the topic up to Alma.

“I read this book recently,” you began, “And it’s quite good. I don't know if you know it. It’s Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf.” Alma replied with a raised eyebrow.

“You do realise that you're asking me if I’ve read one of the greatest works of modernist literature,” she said smugly, and you couldn’t help but blush a little at your clumsy way of approaching the subject.

“Of course, sorry. Well, then I suppose you do remember Clarissa mentioning falling in love with her best friend.” Alma visibly froze at that.

“Yes.”

You felt a lump growing in your throat. “How do you feel about that sort of thing, if I may ask?”

She scanned your face for a moment, her emerald eyes boring deep into yours as if searching for something. The living room felt suddenly too small for the two of you.

“Is there any specific reason you're asking?”

“N-No.” You mentally cursed at the slight stutter in your answer.

Alma finally tore her eyes away, leaving you breathless; however, still awaiting her answer.

“I'm no monster. Why should one’s life be less valid than someone else’s just because they love outside the constraints of our rigid society’s expectations? We are all people, aren’t we? And humanity’s greatest strength is the love we have for one another. Love makes life worth living. If each of us loved just a little more, the world would be a better place.”

As you felt your eyes water, you discovered you were never going to be able to reach the bottom of the ocean of love you felt for this woman, and you weren’t sure you wanted to.

She must have mistaken your silence for unease, so she asked. “Do you hold a different view?”

“No! Birds no. You- You just phrased it beautifully.” You smiled at her, and when you saw her face bloom like a flower, you couldn't help but blush once again.

But as you also learnt the first week in this house, peace never lasts, so before you could reach out and pull a mischievous strand of hair out of her face, little Claire ran into the room.

This conversation warmed your heart for weeks, lighting a spark of hope inside you. Maybe there was some hope for you. But still, you didn’t feel ready to confess your love for her, so you were trying to come up with ways to show her how much she meant to you without saying as much. You would remember any little thing that she told you because what she found interesting you held dear to your heart. You would recommend her books that reminded you of her, collect her favourite flowers to display in vases around the house or shower her with compliments whenever you got the chance.

You were flirting, and she was oblivious to it. Maybe she didn’t realise it or she was just letting you down slowly; you couldn’t tell. Her cheeks would redden each time and she’d go on to say something like, such affections needn’t be shown to her as she looks the same as she does every day, and being a good ymbryne doesn’t have to earn her compliments. To that, you’d respond that she doesn’t get appreciated enough and that would win a bright smile from her.

“And ‘good’ is an understatement.”

In between your duties as an assistant, you would also often spend little bits of free time on the mainland in the city library, scavenging the shelves for books you could read together. Going to the counter with another stack of books, you’d meet the gaze of the new librarian, a man in his early thirties with short blond hair and kind brown eyes. You never talked much besides the pleasantries.

Once you’d get home with the loot, Alma would meet you at the door to help you bring the book into the study.

This has been going on for about six months. You and Alma grew closer each day, but at some point, you’ve come to the sad realisation that she saw you as only a friend. For a time, you lied to yourself, saying it was more than enough for you. However, as the days went by, the beautiful feeling of falling deeper in love with her became a cruel, dragging force that slowly suffocated you.

You needed to escape and that was the time the guy behind the counter first spoke to you beyond politeness. His name was Jonathan, and the two of you quickly bonded over your shared love for astronomy. You would sometimes wait for him at the end of his shift, and you’d have lunch together in the nearby park. He would tell you about his life and family—of how unaccepting his father was when he told him he was bisexual. In turn, you told him how your parents freaked out when they found out you liked women, leaving out the fact that it was in the 1960s. And the more you got to know him, the more you were using him as a way to avoid Alma.

As you were one day in the park again, he turned to you with this strange look in his eyes. He told you he liked you and that even though he knew about your feelings for someone else, he would very much like to go on a date with you even if your heart wasn’t entirely in it—as friends, he said. Then he continued to make a speech about how you shouldn’t stay unhappy forever just because one person doesn’t see how amazing you are. You got teary-eyed and knowing you had no chance with Alma you finally decided to take a step to move on.

“Alma?” You were just in the living room, enjoying your siesta. Alma was seated, or rather, strangely bird-like nestled, in an armchair by the window, reading a book. She tilted her head, her eyes staying on the text to the very last moment before she met your gaze. She was sometimes so much like a bird, and you found every bit endearing.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if I could spend the evening on the mainland,” you said nervously, feeling strangely guilty, like a child lying to their parents about who broke the living room window. She smiled in confusion.

“You know you don’t have to ask. You’re no prisoner, Y/N.” She chuckled lightly. “You know I trust you to make your own decision and keep yourself safe in the process. Just make sure you catch the last ferry back to the island so the children and I don’t have to worry all night,” and with that, her eyes returned to her book.

“Aren’t you curious what I’ll be doing?” Was your absence really that indifferent to her? Alma closed her book with a clap.

“Polite persons aren’t nosy, but if you’re so excited to tell me, then be my guest,” she smiled.

You took a deep breath. “I’ve met someone.”

If her face had betrayed anything you hadn’t noticed—not a single identifiable emotion—yet, as if a dark veil had been drawn over it.

“Oh,” was all she said before returning to her book. You had secretly hoped she’d say more than that.

“It’s a date,” you added in a desperate attempt to get a reaction from her.

“I figured,” she stated simply. Your heart ached at the lack of care, and you made your way to the door.

“Y/N?” You stopped in your tracks. “Enjoy your rendezvous.”

The door slammed behind you.

You met Jonathan in the small city square, and from there you went to ‘the best restaurant in town’ as he called it regardless of the bizarre reality that there was only one.

The date passed in a blur. You sat at a table in the corner of the establishment and ordered wine. Jonathan talked and talked, and you felt terrible that you didn’t pay any attention as, in the gloom of the room his light hair turned dark, and after a few glasses, his eyes turned green, and all you could see was her in her dark Victorian dress, smiling across the table.

When the clock struck nine you finally separated, for a quarter to ten was when the last ferry to the island departed. He insisted on escorting you to the harbor but you rejected his offer as you felt you needed to be alone.

The shipman was a little annoyed that he had to sail to the island with just one passenger, but when you gave him triple the amount needed for one ticket, he stopped fussing.

Your hair moved in the wind as you watched the dark sea, occasionally noticing the dark shadow of one of the many wrecks on the bottom, quietly awaiting saviour. You slightly stretched over the railing, and gazing upon your reflection in the dark waters, you realised you too felt like a wreck. Cold, and alone, and lifeless. Shivers ran down your spine, and you pulled your coat closer around you.

On the island, you stumbled back to the old tomb, grateful you walked the dangerous path so many times that now you knew it well enough to navigate it in the dark. Carefully laying one foot in front of the other, you made your way into the loop entrance.

You found Alma in the living room by the table, leaning over a glass of orange liquid. Her raven hair was cascading like a waterfall over her shoulders, its ends getting lost in the sea of green velvet of her tea gown. She twirled the liquid in her glass before she tilted her head back and emptied it into her throat. Appearing to be greatly troubled, she vigorously rubbed her temples.

Without a second thought, you moved forward in a desperate attempt to comfort her and accidentally bumped your toe into a coffee table. Pain shot through your body, and you swore under your breath.

“You’re back; how wonderful. How was it with that lover of yours?” said Alma with a fake smile plastered on her face.

You slowly walked over to the table, and sank down in a chair across from Alma.

“I presume it didn’t go well?”

“I suppose you could say that, yes.” You met her eyes, and what you saw in them broke you. You couldn’t have seen it from the door, but up close you were certain she had been crying.

“What happened to you?”

“Oh, this. Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” Rubbing her eyes she muttered, ”Would you like some?” and changed the subject by gesturing to her glass.

You decided that you were too overwhelmed with your own turmoil to help hers so you decided to let it slide.

“Might as well.”

She reached for the bottle and filled her glass. Then she slowly slid it towards you. Without a word spoken, you lifted the glass to your lips. The alcohol was already room temperature, but you didn’t mind and let the comfortable burn consume you.

“You never drink whisky.”

“I do now. But that’s not important,” she said, taking the bottle in her hand to look at the label. “I think I hate it,” she added so nonchalantly that you chuckled. Your eyes met.

“I need to tell you something,” both of you blurted out suddenly.

“Please, you go first.”

“I don’t think that’s-”

“Please.”

“Alright,” she replied hesitantly. Straightening her posture and clearing her throat, she reached over the table and caught your hands in hers. Even though it was fairly dark, you still clearly saw that her cheeks were crimson. And as she looked at you and you looked at her, you were sure she wasn’t alone.

“You- You might think me a delusional old woman, but…just yesterday, I would have sworn you fancied me.”

You froze, chills running down your back instantly.

“I know it’s silly. I suppose I saw what I-” she paused, looking at your joined hands.

“Go on. Please,” you squeezed them. Her nervous eyes darted back to yours.

“People see what they want to see,” she began hesitantly. “And I so desperately wanted you to feel the same.”

“W-what do you mean?” She closed her eyes, her eyebrows furrowed.

“Don’t make me say it just so you can reject me.” If you weren’t red before, now you most definitely were. Without giving you a single glance she let go of you and hid her face in her hands.

“You mean you-”

“Yes,” she muttered sharply, flustration lacing her words. The distance between you suddenly felt unbearable.

“You fancy me?” you asked once more in joyous disbelief. Alma slowly sank in her seat lower and lower, her face still hidden in her palms.

“Stop asking,” she whispered.

Your chair screeched as you sharply pushed it from the table, jumping to your feet, and now you stood over Alma.

Finally, she doubtfully looked up, her emerald eyes filled with fear, hope, admiration.

Not waiting for another second, you leaned down, putting one hand on the backrest of her chair for support. As you were now inches away from each other you witnessed Alma’s expression rapidly change. Her face grew redder and her eyes darkened.

“W-what are you doing?” she stammered as you hesitantly stroked her cheek.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked, not being able to contain your smile any longer.

For a moment her eyes darted between yours, checking for any sign of mockery.

And then you felt two hands pulling you down by the collar, and before you realised what was happening, your lips were pressed against hers in a tender kiss.

The wheels of time stopped and it was just you and her. You felt her hands in your hair, the warmth of her body against yours, her hair against your cheek. It felt perfect and real, and it made you feel warm and cared for.

The amount of love with which Alma gazed at you when you pulled away would fill even the deepest ocean—it would reach the furthest star in the galaxy. And you were certain her expression mirrored yours because, right there, you felt the happiest you’ve ever been.

[cerebralisis]

It’s still not clear to me if Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me was titled after Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf by Edward Albee, but that is absolutely where my mind went. I wanted to explore the connection, so I read the play over the weekend, and it has some cool parallels.

Parallel 1: The play is full of TTPD buzz words:

“You have a poetic nature.. a Dylan Thomas-y quality that gets me right where I live.”

“I wasn’t the albatross… you didn’t have to take me to get the prize or anything like that.”

“I do not pick flowers in the blink. I have never robbed a hothouse without there is a light from heaven.”

Parallel 2: The movie adaptation stars Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. Others have done great analyses of the way Taylor has referenced these two in her work, so I’ll leave that rabbit hole alone and simply say that we know Taylor has read about them (see below) and used them as inspiration - beyond just the one line in Are You Ready For It.

Parallel 3: Most interesting to me, the main themes of the play are about critiquing social conventions and blurring the lines between reality and illusion. The main couple spends the evening telling their guests stories about themselves and sharing information about their lives, but as the night goes on we start to realize that it’s hard to know which of these stories are real and which are made up. We can’t tell what’s fact or fiction, and we eventually learn that they do this because they’re afraid to face their own fears and inadequacies. (I’ll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror). After the play reaches its dramatic climax, Liz Taylor’s character finally resigns herself to let go of all the illusions and falsehoods she’s created and live in the truth, as scary as that is for her.

This line from one of the characters stood out to me: “And the west, encumbered by crippling alliances, and burdened with a morality too rigid to accommodate itself to the swing of events, must… eventually… fall.”

I swear, every single literary reference packed into Taylor’s work is telling us the same story in a million different ways. I think our girl just wants to leave it all behind and be her authentic self.

[petaltexturedskies]

But what after all is one night? A short space, especially when the darkness dims so soon, and so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faint green quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of the wave. Night, however, succeeds to night. The winter holds a pack of them in store and deals them equally, evenly, with indefatigable fingers. They lengthen; they darken. Some of them hold aloft clear planets, plates of brightness. The autumn trees, ravaged as they are, take on the flash of tattered flags kindling in the gloom of cool cathedral caves where gold letters on marble pages describe death in battle and how bones bleach and burn far away in Indian sands. The autumns trees gleam in the yellow moonlight, in the light of harvest moons, the light which mellows the energy of labour, and smooths the stubble, and brings the wave lapping blue to the shore.

Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse

[ttsukuyomiii]

Teen Woolf

So in another universe, Stiles is a great witch, who is used to seeing humans and supernatural beings fight. And he's been doing that for a couple of years, years that maybe are millennia, so he's already bored with it until he sees an omega who has great power so he wants to infiltrate his life and that's how he meets Scott. And while trying to help Scott explore his power, he realizes that there is an alpha and his pack that continually covers for the naive omega of the hunters, so Stiles becomes interested in discovering who they are and thus discovers Derek and his herd. Although Derek doesn't like him, Stiles begins to interact until the two get along despite Derek's constant threats. But ruining the happiness of the wolves and the wizard, one day a creature that claims to be chaos in person arrives and begins to attack everyone, seriously damaging Derek and killing a large part of his pack and leaving Scott unconscious for months. , so Stiles decides to confront him, but realizes that if he is who he says he is, he sacrifices himself for Derek and Scott. And as his last words he tells Scott that he is like a brother to him and Derek that he would have liked to have met him before, maybe they would be a nice couple.

After that, millennia pass until the souls of the three present are reincarnated in a new world, the two werewolves being werewolves again, but now Stiles is a simple human who no longer has to carry the burden of caring for beings. Supernatural.

[rotting-ink]

What are the ros ultimate fantasies? If there was no judgement form the witch, what would they want? Whether that's sexual/domestic, just plain fluffy. Their ultimate fantasy

L Rawlins: A family. Found or blood, they don't care. Yes, the pack is a family, a big family, but they want an immediate family, the one they wake up to every day, the one they care for in the morning before they head off to make sure the rest of the family is okay and is thriving. Will have blood kids or adopt kids with you, or even lets you bring in your friends to live with them, as people you consider siblings or such. If not kids, lets get a shit ton of puppies then.

S Della Rovere- To head away from how cute L is, S just wants a week long fuck fest, you two drinking each other's blood, and fucking the days away.

Z Chambers- ... They want to come back to life and give you a proper life, but what can we do? Will settle for getting to go invisible mode and seeing if they can fuck you semi publicly.

V De Winters- Wants to forget their entire life for a day. Help them forget until they have to go back home. They want to feel completely safe and alone with the Witch.

Seir- Honestly, they don't have that many fantasies. Just scritch under their chin and they're happy.

Saleos- Let them treat you like a pet for a whole day. Completely in charge of what you do and wear and everything. Happiest mink in the west if you do it.

Starling Knight- No work. No work for a weekend. No hospital, no morgue, not first aid. They can sit, quiet and relaxed. Gets to catch up on reading. Fresh tea, not cold. Lies against you or you lie agaisnt them. Bigger dream is to escape for a month to Egypt. Let them go home man.

A Lancaster- Truly? They gave up fantasies and the future for their order. But let them predator and prey chase you down for a bondaged fuck fest in the woods, and they're pretty damn happy.

E Rawlins- fucking and kissing and sucking and fucking and cuddling and and and and

Quincy Beaumont- Let them plan the perfect weekend. Serenade you. Take you to the most expensive places to eat and spend your nights at parties, usually masquerades. Then have slow sex at home.

D Woolf- Just.. Be with them. They want to live with you, spend all day with you. Show their research to you. Read together. Cook together. They want domesticity and no anxiety.

[melancholicstation]

The Socially Active Secretary: Chapter Two

pairing: robert francis kennedy female ❤︎ original character charlotte agapov (secretary!reader)

author's note: BOBBY'S ARRIVED...

synopsis: charlotte agapov, a divorcee whom recently moved back to the states after a disastrous lovers quarrel, assumes the secretarial position to the most important man in America, but it is not he who has captured her attention, no. instead, it's his meek younger brother, the runt of the kennedy pack, bobby francis Kennedy.

[ 1585 words ]

taglist: @kennediva @absurdlyvintage @bloxholden35 @astro-vibes-bro @h-l-vlovesvintage @kimcrystal123 @remotewatch

chapter one, three four

masterlist, charlotte moodboard, rfk moodboard

Chapter Two

May 2nd, 1962

Charlotte didn't often think of her life in London since her return to the states but it was hard not to in such living conditions. She wondered if her back would flare up due to the lumpy mattress she laid atop, in London she would get nearly daily pilates to her body and mind alive and distracted for her failure and her deteriorating marriage. A marriage which seemed to eat away at the both of them like a moth would do with a particularly lovely woollen shall. With each argument left untouched and dinner plate growing cold by Hugo's indifference, it seemed that nearly constant movement for Charlotte safeguarded her from total delirium.

Now, Charlotte certainly doesn't have the finances for such activities, not with Miss Desmond on 34rd street paying thirty-five dollars for a week worth of classes, it was preposterous to spend such funds on such abstract trivialities.

In the stead of her pilates escapades Charlotte took a certain likening to taking a walk with her insurmountable and seemingly unshakable grief on how her life had shaped up and a good virginia woolf paperback given to her by her grandmother in the early fifties.

Charlotte still had yet to get a callback from the strange job advertisement, not much of a shock to Charlotte's, yet it upset her enough that her mother noticed

"You know dear, I say you take the bus and head up to the cape, you that wonderful summer home that aunt Katherine has? i'm sure she would delighted to see you visit, doesn't have to be forever--just a couple days y'know I-i think it would do you a great deal of good. To get away for a few days?" Her mother expresses in such a tone that Charlotte feels shackled into agreeing.

Maybe a few days of relaxation and time by the sea would do her some good.

So she did.

Aunt Katherine greeted her with warmth and an admittedly delectable beef tartare at dinner time. The home smelt of tulip and hard candies, with incense wafting through the mahogany crack between the floor and all the home doors. And to top it off, Charlotte had the best sleep she's had in millennia.

Due to her inclination for the morning sunrise, Charlotte awoke at around five am, dressed herself and penned a quick note to her aunt assuring her that she was going to check out the famous beach spot her mom had recommended and that she'd be back before she woke up.

As she weaved her way through the sea of people, not too dissimilar in their anarchy as the crashing waves of the coastline, standing in line at the gelato stand, she cursed her choice of footwear. A pair of suede western-style knee high boots, highly practical for perhaps a stroll in balmoral but not such for a walk through Massachusetts beaches.

Charlotte searched the perimeter of the beach, trying to pin point the specific spot from memory that she remembered adored playing in as a young girl. She considered giving up a turning around many times during the adventure, she had always defaulted to giving up once the times got rough. At least she thinks that's what her ex-partners would posture.

But just as she was starting to believe that spot was a figment of her childhood imaginative spirit, she spotted it. There it was. All in its glory, though aged, but all the more beautiful for it. The lighthouse seemed to have had it tough in the years of Charlotte's absence, with its paint still bleach white but now with barnacles attached. Society often treated once beautiful things that have changed as outcasts, but Charlotte found them all the more fascinating for it.

The bleached and weathered wood creaks under her boots as Charlotte tries and fails to salvage the hem of her knit pants from getting muddled by the damp sand nearly encompassing the stairs.

Charlotte then ascends and moves towards the door, painted in a carmine and fixed with a copper hand rusted beyond belief. But just as she fixes her hand around the doorknob, her manicured hands grasping the jagged texture of the handle, she felt a strong resistant. Not unlike a hand grasping the handle on the other side of the vermillion-washed door.

Charlotte immediately backs her hand off the doorhandles and waits for a response, on the nameless figure she proposes is behind the door. She curses herself for being shocked into place and unable to simply leave down the stairs she came from, after all it was just a stupid lighthouse; a childhood fixation of her personal adoration, whoever could be behind the door could be a dangerous person, or simply just an unfriendly one.

However she was left unable to mull over that thought, like she would do with a good glass of 1942 Dom Perignon Brut, when the person on the other side of the door revealed themselves.

And instead, it wasn't a dangerous or unfriendly face. It was categorically the opposite. The person, now directly facing Charlotte's direction, was a young man with soft, kind eyes and a small straight nose holding up a set of worn acetane sunglasses who could've been no older than 40 staring straight back at her, with equal parts surprise and mild shock.

"Oh I-I'm sorry I didn't mean to shock you! I wasn't aware that this old place had much visitors and was simply passing through, I'll leave you to it." the man said in a thin, bordering on blubbering way that was emboldened with an implacable charm. He was beautiful. And stunningly so at that.

"Oh quite the contrary, it's me who should apologise really I-I'm sorry to have disturbed you, y'know it seemed that we were both under the impression that this old place hasn't seen a familiar face in a while I suppose,"

Charlotte says in a attempt at brevity--truth be told ever since her divorce she had been something of a recluse, and it seemed her social skills were a little more than rusty at the moment.

"Quite so"

,he says chuckling and in a tone that has become more cheerful by the second, as he seems to try to communicate that the disturbance has not been an unwelcome one though not through words.

"Y'know it was quite simple of me to think that such a place of beauty would not have other inhibitors" Charlotte shrugs and playfully notes, as she takes in the surroundings.

The pair begin to fawn over the lighthouse, sharing anecdotes of their favourite details of the structure. The stranger's being the small seagull figurine attached to the wooden railing. Charlotte's being the darling shades of coral and azure painted upon the cupola of the lighthouse.

Mid conversation Charlotte shifts and catches the man's attention,

"At the risk of being brazen, could I ask your name?" Charlotte said in a half-whisper.

"No-no not all my names Robert but y'know people just call me Bobby really--sort of a nickname that stuck I guess.",

It's only then that Charlotte makes note of the strong accent bursting from this kindred spirit in the form of a stranger, a strong Boston accent. So strong in fact that the r's sound less like an r and more similar to a h.

"Well I suppose I should act in the same spirit, my name's Charlotte." she said in a tone she hoped came across as airy.

"Very nice to meet you Charlotte." A beat of silence escorts it.

"Well you know I'd hate to disturb your day plans any longer, so I'll get on my own way. It was wonderful to meet you Charlotte, truly" Robert murmured while receding down the wooden stairs while maintaining comfortable eye contact with such grace and untouched elegance that Charlotte thought had prior only been reserved for dignified princess and Hollywood starlets, like Hepburn or Kelly.

But just as Robert had descended the stairs, Charlotte surprises herself, and Robert, as evident by the minuscule rise of his shoulder blades beneath his poplin dress shirt by calling out to him

"Hey don't I know you from somewhere?, I feel like I've seen you on TV or something?"

"This face?, well you see a face like mine is surely not made for television I can tell you that. Goodbye Charlotte, you have a good day now." He laughs with an air of brevity in his tone.

Charlotte finds herself laughing too, without even a direct reason why. The realisation hits her that this is the first time she'd laughed in nearly six month. She had been so focused on survival from her divorce that Charlotte had closed herself off from all frivolity, such as a kind interaction with a similarly kind stranger.

Just as her eye's focus back from the dream state of Charlotte's that had to border on at least ten seconds, Charlotte looks back to where Robert had just stood. And he was gone without a trace.

Well, not entirely without a trace. Though his physical being had left Charlotte could see the imprint of his loafer on the sandy wood of the stairs.

If it weren't for those Charlotte would regard the interaction as a dream sequence, a figment of her fractured, socially-stifled brain.

But it was real. Entirely real and as tangible as the sand passing through her fingers.

Charlotte would go on to repeat those two sentences all the way back to her temporary cape abode.

End of Chapter Two.

[canadianno]

Whats Lamberts past? Where are they from? I think I remember seeing a post from you about the Lambs being from Concolor. Can you tell me more about their upbringing and culture?

(Yapping below cut)

Lamberts past is SO important to my au. I think that backstories are! Fun! And silly! And the lamb needs more backstory representation!

Lambert was born in the mountains of Concolor, the realm of death. They were born into a world that was already trying to get rid of them, and because of it there's alot of things they genuinely haven't done. Lambert has never been to school, for example.

Their mother was named Ewein (you-in) and their father was named Ramsey. They were born with a fraternal twin, as most if not all sheep are, who was named Woolf (wolf)

They didn't actually learn too much of their culture from their parents- their father insisted apon some, such as learning to spin yarn, learning of the stories, worshipping their missing god- but their mother discouraged as much as she could.

Lambert escaped home at 8 or 9 years old, gunshot to the back of the arm, alone, and followed their mother's instruction to flee for the gate of Concolor. Lambert had never before even left the property, but learned fast, and learned well. Lambert was a natural born survivor, and, well, they must have been pretty good at it.

Lambert learned most of their people's culture from groups they traveled with- Sheep are social animals, and it's rare to find one traveling alone. They fled in packs of 4-10, despite the fact it made the targets on their backs larger. Lambert made many friends along the way, through the years. And- as you can probably guess, was the only sheep to make it through the gateway of Concolor, into the commonlands.

The gateway was closed by all 4 bishops soon after, locked away, hidden.

The sheep people of Concolor were extremely adapted to their environment, and due to their secluded homelands, not much of their culture was passed onto races around them.

They were big on music and dance. Storytelling was done through song, hooves on stone were used as drums, mountain ranges and sheer cliffs amplified their voices. The sheep were also healers and wisemen, known historically to make the best of doctors and the common of librarians. The sheep people have a natural knack for memory, and thus- they didn't tend to write things down.

Most of what they did write down was burned regardless- but some old rumors circulate- that possibly, in the lost library of Silk Cradle, lies a collection of copies, copies of the original books that were lost to the fires of Concolor.

[enbysiriusblack]

Lily woke up, her alarm buzzing 7am. She pulled back her duvet, tucking it back under the pillow. She opened the curtains around her bed, revealing the bright light of the morning sun in the quiet dormitory.

She grabbed her folded pile of clothes from her dresser and tiptoed to the bathroom. After showering, she dressed in her usual uniform. A black mini skirt, green tights, a pair of brown platform loafers, a white shirt and her gryffindor tie, and a gryffindor jumper. She brushed her hair, then grabbed her green hairband.

Lily brushed her teeth and did her makeup, before leaving the bathroom and packing her bag for her lessons she had until lunch, when she would head back to her dorm. She grabbed her alarm clock, setting it for half 8 to make sure the others wouldn't be late for class. After that, she headed out the door, a Woolf book in hand.

She made her way to the great hall, sitting at the gryffindor table, only a few students around. Making herself a cup of tea and strawberry jam toast, she opened up her book.

As she turned the page, someone dropped into the seat in front of her.

She looked up to see a sweat-covered James Potter. Dressed in small, red shorts and a vest, he grabbed a banana before reaching over and taking a sip of Lily's tea.

"My tea", she frowned, grabbing it back.

"You lot stole it first", he grinned, opening up the banana and leaning over to look at Lily's book.

She pulled it towards herself, "You'll drip your sweat on it!"

"It would dry!" He huffed, turning to the other tables before setting his gaze on a certain person sitting at the quidditch table.

James turned back to Lily, "Regulus is kinda hot, don't you think?"

Lily glanced up and narrowed her eyes, "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing! I just thought it that's all."

She turned to the slytherin table briefly, "I guess you're right."

Regulus looked up from his cereal and charms reference guide for a moment, catching Lily's eye.

James leaned forwards, his voice lowering to a whisper, "I saw you two, you know."

"Hm?" Lily hummed, picking her book back up.

James leaned closer, "In the library. I was helping out Pince, putting books back. And what do I see? Miss Lily Evans holding hands with Regulus freaking Black. Now, what is going on there?"

She flicked her eyes up to James' pondering face, "Nothing. We're friends."

James frowned.

"Fine! We're sort of... seeing each other. a little. secretly. it's very private."

James grinned, "Class. I won't tell anyone, you have my word."

"So", Lily shut her book, folding her arms, as a soft smirk slowly graced her face, "you think Regulus is hot, huh?"

James froze.

[chiimi-png]

100 Days of Productivity [70&71/100]

🌿05&06/11/23🌿

Yesterday I had to help my parents with some boxes and packing so I couldn't really do much other than to finish reading my book.

Today I started working on my essay for my critical reading course and once again I have decided to change the topic, this time to a Virginia Woolf short story The Mark on the Wall. Gotta analyse a passage of it and turn it into a 1500 word essay so wish me luck. Also decided to go work to a cafe in the afternoon with my friend so I'm feeling caffeinated and ready to work.

🎧 song of the day: Mary on a Cross - Ghost

📖 rating: Beach Read - Emily Henry 5/5 ⭐️ a really cute (imo) romance novel plot, some clichés but it was what I needed to get out of my rut

[feminerds]

04 March 2023

After seeing Bikini Kill live @ The Tivoli, Brisbane 03/03/2023 w/ Bec & Mei.

Page 2 - There’s not much that can compare with a room full of women, queers, femmes, themmes, young and old singing along, word for word, with Kathleen Hanna “That girl thinks she’s the queen of the neighbourhod, I got news for you SHE IS!”

The magic of that song - being and desiring to be that girl.

The shaking floor, the dense inner-ear pressure, the upward unified motion of the crowd. The certainty and the support.

There’s something about the sometimes indiscernible lyrics, that makes me think of Humyara’s Comic about everyone putting their little yell into the world - is that heteroglossia?

It is interesting to me that so many of Kathleen Hanna’s projects, say simply -

You should do it

You can do it

Here’s how you could do it

We will support you doing it

The night had a clear intentionality. Lovingly structured to suggest -- you can do this! It’s not so hard, here are the broad steps. And if we can do it, you can too.

Page 3 -

A Gig that is a Zine  recipe  monograph  a play  with a thesis  a concept gig

Art Accessibility and a Gig that is Auto-logical Self Supporting.

Chapter 1 - The opener - must select a support act that is a small local band, and I mean really quiet small.

Chapter 2 - Come on stage, be fun and cool. Be rockstars.

Chapter 3 -  Mutuality of the good vibe. “I can be here because you like me”. Express gratitude for the crowd, they make it possible. The punk-band-you-love is the vibes you bring to the show.

Chapter 4 - Make mistakes, share, be scrappy, “it doesn’t have to be perfect”.

Chapter 5 - Encourage the crowd to literally just think of a band name.

Chapter 6 - “Say you’ll  play a gig - then start writing songs”.

Chapter 7 - Remind them criticism will come, new bands get criticised, established bands get criticised. “Let the haters give you inspiration”. Some people won’t get what you do, you’re not making it for them.

Chapter 8 - Making your own isn’t that hard.

Chapter 9 - Support small and local, we need to lift each other up. Mention bands that you’ve supported before, Kathleen name dropped “Minimum Chips” who were a support act to them, last time they toured so-called Aus.

Chapter 10 - Get Lifting!

Chapter 11 - Reap and Repeat.

A (cool and amazing) friend of mine saw the Punk Singer 10 years ago and invited me and couple of friends around to her place, because after seeing it she wanted to start making a zine.   

I don’t imagine Bikini Kill would necessarily call themselves a prog band (or maybe I mean that they wouldn’t apply a ‘prog lens’ to their own music) BUT their intentionality of texture (like when look at them without attempting to focus - I just see furious, exciting, incomprehensible woman) puts me in mind of it. When I let my eyes unfocus, and I stop trying to grasp the untamed lyrics - I see, or receive, the sexy, angry women-supporting-women of it all, and it washes inexorably over me. Maybe is a Prog music lens? Maybe it’s Maybeline? Maybe it’s McLuhanism? I love the efficiency and directness of  the message I’m receiving in these unfocused moments. How it self supports - how in granularity and in wide shot - word and deed - Bikini Kill says Yell as Well.   

Hot Dog Theory of Art Accessibility.

Art accessibility is an enormous topic, but I think about it as a hot dog. Being that it can be tackled from either end. Highly glossy, easily discoverable, eminently digestible, polished products at one end, that say “I’m for everyone!” - think streaming a MCU movie from Disney+ - whose tricks and technology are almost indistinguishable from magic; at the other end, zines. The accessibility of making zines (and by extension art and by extension anything), is their incredible power. That anyone would look at a zine I’ve made and think - “but, I could make this” - is for me, a zines‘ greatest power.   

Page 1 -

Juniper of the support act to Bikini Kill - Queerbait - at the Tiv. They were great, you should check them out!

[scotianostra]

January 15th 1803 saw the birth of Marjory Fleming, "Pet Marjory", child writer and poet, who died in 1811 of meningitis at the age of 8 years and 11 months.

One of my favourite, yet tragic tales, young Pet Marjory is a touching story of a wee lass that packed so much into her short life.

Marjory Fleming was an extraordinary child prodigy, she left poems, letters and a journal that are now one of the treasures of the National Library of Scotland; and in 1889 Sir Leslie Stephen, Virginia Woolf's father, wrote an entry about her for the original Dictionary of National Biography, believing that 'no more fascinating infantile author has ever appeared. What makes this all the more remarkable is, Marjory was a mere 8 years old when she died.

It’s been said she was a distant relative of Sir Walter Scott, although there is no real evidence they ever met Robert Louis Stevenson and Mark Twain also thought highly of her.

Marjory spent most of her sixth, seventh and eighth years in Edinburgh being tutored by her teenage cousin, Isabella Keith. Isabella is mentioned is the somewhat odd opening line of Marjory’s famous journal: ‘Many people are hanged for Highway robbery Housebreking Murder &c. &c. Isabella teaches me everything I know and I am much indebted to her she is learnen witty & sensible.’

Marjory returned to Kirkcaldy in July 1811, and wrote on 1 September to her cousin, ‘We are surrounded with measles at present on every side’. She herself contracted measles in November and although she apparently recovered, died in December from what is now thought to have been meningitis. She was a month short of her ninth birthday.

Marjory was an accomplished and witty poet and diarist although she was not published until 50 years after her death. Her writings became hugely popular in the Victorian period albeit with the published editions altered as some her her language was thought inappropriate for an eight year old. The first account of her was given by a London journalist in the Fife Herald and reprinted as a booklet entitled Pet Marjorie: a Story of Child Life Fifty Years Ago. The nickname ‘Pet’ and the spelling of her name with ‘ie’ were inventions of her biographer: both appear on Marjory’s gravestone in Abbotshall Kirkyard, Kirkcaldy erected in 1930.

Marjory’s precocious intellect is noted in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography: ‘She records enjoying the poems of Pope and Gray, the Arabian Nights, Ann Radcliff’s ‘misteris [sic] of udolpho’, the Newgate calendar, and ‘tails’ by Maria Edgworth and Hannah More.’ Her abilities are also apparent in the pithy comments in her journal and in her valiant attempts to write in rhyming couplets.

Robert Louis Stevenson is quoted as saying, ‘Marjory Fleming was possibly – no, I take back possibly – she was one of the noblest works of God.’

I had a hunt around and found a few of her poems and have picked out two that I liked best the first is written about her cousin with whom she lived in Edinburgh, the simplicity and innocence of the poem I must admit has brought a tear to my eye, especially as it written by a 6 year old……��

My Dear love Isabella”

Here lies sweet Isabell in bed,

With a night-cap on her head;

Her skin is soft, her face is fair,

And she has very pretty hair;

She and I in bed lie nice.

And undisturbed by rats and mice;

She is disgusted with Mr. Worgan,

Though he plays upon the organ.

Her nails are neat, her teeth are white,

Her eyes are very, very bright;

In a conspicuous town she lives,

And to the poor her money gives;

Here ends sweet Isabella’s story,

And may it be much to her glory.I love in Isa’s bed to lie,

Oh, such joy and luxury!

The bottom of the bed I sleep,

And with great care within I creep;

Oft I embrace her feet of lillys,

But she has gotten all the pillys.

Her neck I never can embrace,

But I do hug her feet in place.

The manuscripts of Marjory Fleming’s writings can be seen in the National Library of Scotland online here https://digital.nls.uk/marjory-fleming/archive/100989212

[exhaled-spirals]

« Night, however, succeeds to night. The winter holds a pack of them in store and deals them equally, evenly, with indefatigable fingers. They lengthen; they darken. Some of them hold aloft clear planets, plates of brightness. The autumn trees, ravaged as they are, take on the flesh of tattered flags kindling in the doom of cool cathedral caves where gold letters on marble pages describe death in battle and how bones bleach and burn far away in Indian sands. The autumn trees gleam in the yellow moonlight, in the light of harvest moons, the light which mellows the energy of labour [...].

The nights now are full of wind and destruction; the trees plunge and bend and their leaves fly helter skelter until the lawn is plastered with them and they lie packed in gutters and choke rain pipes and scatter damp paths. Also the sea tosses itself and breaks itself [...]. Almost it would appear that it is useless in such confusion to ask the night those questions as to what, and why, and wherefore, which tempt the sleeper from his bed to seek an answer. »

— Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

[fromkenari]

Waterloo Letters #4 (1/4): Hometown stuff

Hometown stuff A agcd@eclare45.com                9/2/20 5:12 PM to Henry H, Have been home for three hours. Already miss you. This is some bullshit. Hey, have I told you lately that you’re brave? I still remember what you said to that little girl in the hospital about Luke Skywalker: “He’s proof that it doesn’t matter where you come from or who your family is.” Sweetheart, you’re proof too. (By the way, in this relationship, I am absolutely the Han and you are absolutely the Leia. Don’t try to argue because you’ll be wrong.) I was also thinking about Texas again, which I guess I do a lot when I’m stressed about election stuff. There’s so much stuff I haven’t shown you yet. We haven’t even done Austin! I wanna take you to Franklin Barbecue. You have to wait in line for hours, but that’s part of the experience. I really wanna see a member of the royal family wait in line for hours to eat cow parts. Have you thought any more about what you said before I left? About coming out to your family? Obviously, you’re not obligated. You just seemed kind of hopeful when you talked about it. I’ll be over here, still quarantined in the White House (at least Mom didn’t kill me for London), rooting for you. Love you. xoxoxoxoxo A P.S. Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf—1927: With me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal.

Re: Hometown stuff Henry hwales@kensingtonemail.com                9/3/20 2:49 AM to A Alex, It is, indeed, bullshit. It’s all I can do not to pack a bag and be gone forever. Perhaps I could live in your room like a recluse. You could have food sent up for me, and I’ll be lurking in disguise in a shadowy corner when you answer the door. It’ll all be very dreadfully Jane Eyre. The Mail will write mad speculations about where I’ve gone, if I’ve offed myself or vanished to St. Kilda, but only you and I will know that I’m just sprawled in your bed, reading books and feeding myself profiteroles and making love to you endlessly until we both expire in a haze of chocolate sauce. It’s how I’d want to go. I’m afraid, though, I’m stuck here. Gran keeps asking Mum when I’m going to enlist, and did I know Philip had already served a year by the time he was my age. I do need to figure out what I’m going to do, because I’m certainly closing in on the end of what’s an acceptableamount of time for a gap year. Please do keep me in your—what is it American politicians say?—thoughts and prayers. Austin sounds brilliant. Maybe in a few months, after things settle down a bit? I could take a long weekend. Can we visit your mum’s house? Your room? Do you still have your lacrosse trophies? Tell me you still have posters up. Let me guess: Han Solo, Barack Obama, and … Ruth Bader Ginsburg. (I’ll agree with your assessment that you’re the Han to my Leia in that you are, without doubt, a scruffy-looking nerf herder who would pilot us into an asteroid field. I happen to like nice men.) I have thought more about coming out to my family, which is part of why I’m staying here for now. Bea has offered to be there when I tell Philip if I want, so I think I will. Again, thoughts and prayers. I love you terribly, and I want you back here soon. I need your help picking a new bed for my room; I’ve decided to get rid of that gold monstrosity. Yours, Henry P.S. From Radclyffe Hall to Evguenia Souline, 1934: Darling—I wonder if you realize how much I am counting on your coming to England, how much it means to me—it means all the world, and indeed my body shall be all, all yours, as yours will be all, all mine, beloved. … And nothing will matter but just we two, we two longing loves at last come together.

Re: Hometown stuff A agcd@eclare45.com                9/3/20 6:20 AM to Henry H, Shit. Do you think you’re going to enlist? I haven’t done any research on it yet. I’m gonna ask Zahra to have one of our people put together a binder on it. What would that mean? Would you have to be gone a lot? Would it be dangerous??? Or is it just like, wear the uniform and sit at a desk? How did we not talk about this when I was there????? Sorry. I’m panicking. I somehow forgot this was a thing looming on the horizon. I’m there for whatever you decide you want to do, just, like, let me know if I need to start practicing gazing wistfully out the window, waiting for my love to return from the war. It drives me nuts sometimes that you don’t get to have more say in your life. When I picture you happy, I see you with your own apartment somewhere outside of the palace and a desk where you can write anthologies of queer history. And I’m there, using up your shampoo and making you come to the grocery store with me and waking up in the same damn time zone with you every morning. When the election is over, we can figure out what we’ll do next. I would love to be in the same place for a bit, but I know you have to do what you have to do. Just know, I believe in you. Re: telling Philip, sounds like a great plan. If all else fails, just do what I did and act like a huge jackass until most of your family figures it out on their own. Love you. Tell Bea hi. A P.S. Eleanor Roosevelt to Lorena Hickock—1933: I miss you greatly dear. The nicest time of the day is when I write to you. You have a stormier time than I do but I miss you as much, I think. … Please keep most of your heart in Washington as long as I’m here for most of mine is with you!

McQuiston, Casey. Red, White & Royal Blue: A Novel (pp. 292-297). St. Martin's Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

2 | 3 | 4

[dedalvs]

what kind of books do you like reading?

My favorite era is 19th century Russian literature. Some of my favorites from there are Dead Souls by Gogol, Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev, Eugene Onegin by Alexander Pushkin, and Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov (I was utterly baffled as to why everyone was talking about Ivan Goncharov when I came back to Tumblr!). I loved a lot of early 20th century American literature, in particular F. Scott Fitzgerald, who was an early hero, and I also read a lot of Joseph Heller and Vladimir Nabokov (Russian/American). I've read everything by Franz Kafka—even the bizarre stuff, like Amerika—and loved it all. My favorite writer of all time is Virginia Woolf, and I love reading writers who experiment with style (Lewis Carroll, of all people, has a nice early example of stream of consciousness with Sylvie and Bruno). I think the best piece of writing I've ever seen from America is Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison.

I've also read and enjoyed some stuff from the 16th-18th centuries (in particular, Ludovico Ariosto's Orlando Furioso, Edmund Spencer's The Faerie Queene, and John Milton's Paradise Lost), but a lot more that's a lot older. Giovanni Boccaccio's The Decameron is a great collection of tales like The Canterbury Tales, but better (note: I haven't yet read 1,001 Nights. Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur was a lot of fun. I slowed down a lot about eight years ago). I even love the fake ones that are tales within tales like Jan Potocki's The Manuscript Found at Saragossa. But I love chasing down and reading older works, like sagas and epics. Some of my favorites are The Nibelungenlied, The Kalevala, Njal's Saga, and The Epic of Sundiata. Gilgamesh is absolutely incredible. I've read some clunkers, though, like The Song of Roland, which I found dry, dull, and short.

As my reading slowed, I liked to read books aimed at young readers. Growing up, I loved the Oz books, which I find to be an utterly fascinating example of uniquely American (and non-European) fantasy. We have that and Little Nemo, but most other fantasy you get (outside of modern times) is distinctly European, and owes more to Lord Dunsany and Tolkien than anyone else. I loved The 13 1/2 Lives of Captain Bluebear, which I just finished ready to my daughter (Walter Moers). Michael Ende's The Neverending Story is probably the best book for young readers I've read. And then there's the Moomin books by Tove Jansson... What a find those were! Written for kids, but so unbelievably melancholic and subtle! Every page is packed with so much loneliness and longing! I couldn't even believe what I'd read after reading Tales from Moomin Valley. "The Fillyjonk who Believed in Disasters" is something I think every adult should read. It reminds me a bit of The Magic Mountain (see below) in how subtly it captures a character or series of character traits that are quite natural and recognizable, but so hard to pin down! Tove Jansson was brilliant.

For utter, nonsensical, bizarre, indulgent, and absurd escapism, I read E. T. A. Hoffmann. It's hard to even describe how ridiculous his stuff is. Like...you read this stuff, and are saying, "You can't DO that! You'd be laughed off AO3 for that!" And yet he does. And he doesn't care. He had an audience of one, and that was himself. I have no idea how his works are even remembered. Utterly bizarre.

That captures a lot of it. Here are some that don't fit elsewhere:

The Buru Quartet by Pramoedya Ananta Toer (masterful)

Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller (wrecked me)

Moby Dick by Herman Melville (tore through it!)

Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (this one, too! Thick book, but such a quick and joyful read—and written with such exquisite detail!)

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (one of the best of the 19th century)

The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann (so subtle... Let me tell you, this is a long book, and like, it's 90% over, and suddenly this new character is introduced, and it's like, "What even is this…?", and yet, somehow, he takes like 50 pages, and you suddenly care about this guy... Astonishing)

The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton (tour de force; her best, in my opinion)

Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut (his best that I've read, and the one I'd recommend to everyone)

Forest of a Thousand Daemons by D. O. Fagunwa (terrible translation, but so wonderfully inventive!)

Black Elk Speaks (I want to mention this, because I really loved it, but it has a problematic history, so fyi)

True Grit by Charles Portis (one of the most beautiful short novels I've ever read; the Cohen Bros. adaptation is actually very, very close to it)

The Awakening by Kate Chopin (what a smack in the face that one is!)

The Tempest by Shakespeare (my favorite of his)

The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass (best written work from America in the 19th century)

The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin (by contrast, one of the most ridiculous things I've ever read in my life; HILARIOUS)

Journey to the West by Wu Cheng'en (read the whole thing, and...wow. lol So much repetition with humor throughout capped off by brilliance)

The Bostonians by Henry James (the best demonstration of exactly what he aimed to do: produce an ending that has two equally plausible and utterly opposite interpretations that can both be supported textually)

Nohow On by Samuel Beckett (the culmination of his work, and a worthy one)

Three Tales by Gustave Flaubert (I bawled—loudly—after reading "A Simple Heart"; I couldn't help it)

Thanks for asking this! It's been so long since I've really read... It's nice to remember. I wanted to read the Studs Lonigan trilogy for ages now... Oh, and I went through a Gabriel García Márquez phase! And Tom Robbins! And, of course, I've read all the wonderful comic novels by my friend Nina Post, whose wit astounds me.

Okay, now I'm just not getting to sleep. But this is some of what I've read that I've loved. Also, for certain things, I've read a lot (like 19th century Russian literature and Samuel Beckett), so I can tell you what not to read. For example, A Hero of Our Time by Lermontov? Pass. Same with The Golovlovs by Saltykov-Shchedrin. You can probably pass on War and Peace, as well, due to its girth, but you're going to miss some good stuff (amidst a lot of dry stuff).

Okay, hitting the button now! I'm done.

(Oh, but if you were assigned Their Eyes Were Watching God and kind of passed on it because it was a "school book", that was a mistake!!!)

(Oh, Cane by Jean Toomer!)

(Oh, and if you want a short one that has a "wah-wah!" ending, check out As I Lay Dying by Faulkner! lol That rascal...)

(OH! And the "school book" thing? Hard ditto on Of Mice and Men. Holy shit, that book... Wow.)

(OMG BABBIT!!!!! I loved it!!! Pass on Main Street, though.)

(Oh, and John Updike can miss me with his Rabbit stuff... YIKES!)

(Oh, and if you like Woody Allen's style but not Woody Allen, try Portnoy's Complaint.)

(Last one: Jasmine by my short fiction professor Bharati Mukherjee, who sadly passed away far too soon. On the last day of class, she'd forgotten she was going to have us read Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky. As we were walking out the door, she made us promise to read it. I never saw her again, but I did, Ms. Mukherjee, and it was tremendous. Thank you so much for what you gave me. I had so much trouble showing my work to other people before that class. You helped me so much, and I wish I could've told you. You may think those who have influenced you will be around forever for you to thank one day, but they're not. Today's the day. Tell them what they meant to you. You'll regret it if you don't.)