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Love the random censorship in Victorian novels. Mr. ------- came down from -----shire in the summer of 18--. Who? Where? When? Wouldn't you like to know, book boy

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thinking fondly of this meme I made for a coworker years and years ago

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ray bradbury

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Writers when it's time to write the story no one forced them to come up with in the first place 🙄

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I understand the argument that while transformative and derivative works have always existed, "fanfiction" as a medium is inherently connected to the concept of IP law and thus is a specifically contemporary art/craft movement, I get it I really do, but also twenty years after the canterbury tales were finished an english monk wrote his own additional chapter and added himself as a character, and I'm sorry but that man should have been on wattpad

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of course you have blue curtains and subtext

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a lot of media assumes robots would be immortal but i think its a lot more interesting to explore robots dealing with their parts wearing down and battery life shortening and all the horrible little failings that come with being a complicated machine. sure they can replace parts but you'd assume you cant completely ship of theseus them, or it'd have pretty big rammifications on their sense of identity. idk. give me robots with distinct, unique signs of aging. as a treat.

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“Asteroid City” (2023) written & directed by Wes Anderson

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I found an absolute treasure today. A Penguin Illustrated Classics edition of Pride and Prejudice from 1938.

(I love that you can see on the inside of the dust jacket on the bottom right the price in 'old' money of 6d... aka sixpence or half a shilling!)

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Moss, Mary Oliver (Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems)

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You're a royal attendant slowly realising that you've lost track of which of the young princess' numerous anti-assassination body doubles is the real one. The royal portraits are so idealised that they look nothing like her, so you can't figure it out that way, and the Queen is a shitty absentee mom who doesn't remember what her own daughter looks like and routinely gets them mixed up, so she'd be no help even if you dared to ask. None of them will break character. You're beginning to suspect they're doing this on purpose.

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The city watchman had a choice: acknowledge the corpse, or continue eating his sausage roll. His stomach growled. To acknowledge this particular corpse would mean acknowledging that it was a famous and politically charged corpse, one with potentially ruinous consequences for his pension, weeks if not months of hard thankless work, and mountains upon mountains of paperwork. To continue eating a sausage roll meant a warm and savory snack to ward off the cold. And! Would a policeman risk getting sausage roll crumbs on a crime scene? Of course not. Especially not a crime scene with such momentous implications for his career and personal safety. That would be unprofessional. It was perhaps the easiest choice he had ever made. Someone was going to have to deal with the corpse. As long as it wasn’t him.

The respite of the sausage roll allowed him time to weigh his options. He turned to face the street. He would have remarked on how bad the rain was getting, had a small plastic woman not collided with him.

After an embarrassingly long moment of regaining his footing and groping for anything grope-able, the watchmen seized her by the lapel of her ratty raincoat. “Hey!” He barked through a volley of sausage roll buckshot. “Watch where you’re going! Don’t you know this is a crime scene?” He put the small plastic woman down as quickly as he could, and shoved her a good distance away.

Digit the Witch tried to speak, specifically to swear, but all that came out was an electrical cable. Digit the Witch could not stand cities, and this one was in the running for the worst city she had ever visited. It was her turn to take a moment. After slurping the cable back into her throat, and punching herself in the stomach to reset the connection, she managed to croak out: “Kshmorri saur,* are you with the city watch?”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. Surely he didn’t hit her that hard. “What’s it to ya?”

“I was hired by the constabulary, but I cannot find it in this strandher** of a city.”

The guard laughed at her. He wasn’t forcing it either. The idea of her joining the city watch was truly, genuinely, hilarious to this man. Digit scowled up at him, and the city beyond.

“Actually” he chucked. “That is a great idea. The constabulary is down on viridium road. You can’t miss it. The street is green. You head down there, and tell them the governor guard has a case for them. There’s a body at the Calf and Camphor. Got that?”

“Green street. Calf and Camphor. Got it.”

“Good!” the guard laughed to himself again as he watched the small plastic woman scramble away. He took a final bite of his sausage roll. The moment she was out of sight, he strolled away. What luck! He thought to himself. What luck indeed! ---

*apologies, ugly hog **shit-heap

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flops face down on the floor How can so many people not get what death of the author actually means. it's such a simple concept to understand.