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Grantaire admired, loved, and venerated Enjolras.

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My current mood:

I want to kiss Greek statues

#secrethistory #darkacademy #aesthetics

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dark academia playlist compilation

dark academia - a concept playlist

music to write to

music to read to

pretentious grandparent music

the goldfinch by donna tartt

the secret history by donna tartt

if we were villains by m.l. rio

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The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

None of us ever find enough kindness in the world, do we?

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theo  & boris + THE GOLDFINCH 2019 | Official Trailer 1

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i really love the entire sequence in the secret history with richard nearly freezing to death throughout winter break because i remember when i first read it i was like jesus this is so long and torturous why is so much narrative being devoted to him walking around in misery??? but then reading it a second time with knowledge of what comes later it becomes SO CLEAR. the feeling of dread and shared misery with richard becomes nearly unbearable where you just want to scream at him to get some fucking help. so….. when our dear henry winter finally comes around and takes the poor boy to the damn hospital he’s not only richard’s savior, but ours. we finally get to stop reading about the hippie and the hole in the ceiling and sleeping in the cold. It’s almost as if donna intentionally made her writing feel like watching paint dry so that we eventually see henry through richard’s perspective: as a guardian angel. she relieves us of deliberate exasperation to make the line between perception and reality even hazier. because how could henry not care about richard when he saved his life? so yeah, wintergeddon is painful to read, but it’s such a well-formulated piece of writing. can you tell i worship the ground donna tartt walks on

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i really love the entire sequence in the secret history with richard nearly freezing to death throughout winter break because i remember when i first read it i was like jesus this is so long and torturous why is so much narrative being devoted to him walking around in misery??? but then reading it a second time with knowledge of what comes later it becomes SO CLEAR. the feeling of dread and shared misery with richard becomes nearly unbearable where you just want to scream at him to get some fucking help. so….. when our dear henry winter finally comes around and takes the poor boy to the damn hospital he’s not only richard’s savior, but ours. we finally get to stop reading about the hippie and the hole in the ceiling and sleeping in the cold. It’s almost as if donna intentionally made her writing feel like watching paint dry so that we eventually see henry through richard’s perspective: as a guardian angel. she relieves us of deliberate exasperation to make the line between perception and reality even hazier. because how could henry not care about richard when he saved his life? so yeah, wintergeddon is painful to read, but it’s such a well-formulated piece of writing. can you tell i worship the ground donna tartt walks on

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could it be because it reminds us that we are alive, of our mortality, of our individual souls- which, after all, we are too afraid to surrender but yet make us feel more miserable than any other thing? but isn’t it also pain that often makes us most aware of self? it is a terrible thing to learn as a child that one is a being separate from the world, that no one and no thing hurts along with one’s burned tongues and skinned knees, that one’s aches and pains are all one’s own. even more terrible, as we grow old, to learn that no person, no matter how beloved, can ever truly understand us. our own selves make us most unhappy, and that’s why we’re so anxious to lose them, don’t you think?

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academic nostalgia

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donna tartt: *writes an entire cautionary book about the hubris of characters throwing a bacchanal and then going crazy, losing their friendships, falling apart and destroying the rest of their lives as a result of this decision*

me, immune to critical analysis: i want to throw a bacchanal

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Hypothetical dark academia novel in which instead of the crazed obsession being death, it is birth. Imagine a group of teenage girls drunk on the power they have to create life. They consider themselves gods. They drink wine, have bacchanals, and eat fruit in mossy caves on Sunday mornings. They gather every day before school to review the latest scientific discoveries over orange-peel tea. They write plays and raise their voices in excitement over new plot devices and marvel at the endless possibilities they have. The girls are avid feminists; they write essays and speeches about femininity and gender roles. They romanticize Renaissance women. They show up to school in all black, dress shirts rolled up to the elbow, hair in elaborate braids. Imagine the romances, the scheming, the poetry, the art, the speeches, the projects, the philosophical ramblings, the wide-eyed wonder and subsequent ambition.

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Les amis, where are you?

i want friends with whom i can visit art galleries and photography collections, exchange monthly book recommendations, take long city walks during the night, drink cheap wine while listening to vinyl records, browse second-hand bookshops, spend all day in little libraries, sit on balconies and take pictures of the evening sky

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It's definitely discribes my dreams

Henry: What’s your fantasy?

Richard: I wake up, my debt is all paid off, my bank account is full, my relationship with my family is healthy, and I’m able to travel anywhere in the world.

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Everebody says our dream will must to come real. I want to sit and translate ancient texts, drink coffee and learn classics. Can I go to dark academy?

just imagine

you are at a small liberal arts college in vermont, you study classics, and now you are sitting in the library which smells like dust, old books, and france. you and your small circle of friends with whom you study classics are sitting on the floor in a corner of the library where nobody goes at nearly two in the morning, with all of the old greek, french, and latin books. you are all studying or working on papers or translating books in silence, except for classical music playing on a radio next to you with the volume soft enough that only the few of you can hear it in your little corner of the library. the smell of coffee and tea mixes and wafts around all of you from the small disposable Styrofoam cups that are sitting on the carpet, which you got from the teachers lounge since your classics teacher allows you to go in there and raid it whenever you please. in the middle of the circle of all of you is a variety of stationery scattered in a jumble: pens (fountain and ballpoint), loose leaf papers with unspecified scrawled writing, a lexicon, and other writing and studying tools. suddenly, your friend sitting next to you, with whom you are closest in the group, taps you and slips you a paper discreetly. you unfold it and it says, “cubitum eamus?” you look up, make sure no one is looking, and nod.

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I wrote a song in Latin about Jean Prouvaire for a school project and I think it’s what both Jehan and Victor Hugo would have wanted

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I wrote a song in Latin about Jean Prouvaire for a school project and I think it’s what both Jehan and Victor Hugo would have wanted