#(diaries of lisa sharpe)

[lisas111]

i bleed easy

[galathynius]

2023 reading log

the uncensored picture of dorian gray by oscar wilde / jan. 2-9 / 4 stars

buzz saw: the improbable story of how the washington nationals won the world series by jesse dougherty / jan. 9-11 / 4.5 stars

proposal by meg cabot / jan. 17 / 3 stars

sidelined: sports, culture, and being a woman in america by julie dicaro / jan. 12-17 / 4 stars

remembrance by meg cabot / jan. 18-19 / 3 stars

how sweet it is by dylan newton / jan. 19-20 / 3 stars

daughters of sparta by claire heywood / jan. 21-22 / 3 stars

highly suspicious and unfairly cute by talia hibbert / jan. 22 / 4 stars

gentlemen prefer blondes: the diary of a professional lady by anita loos / jan. 23-26 / 3 stars

hell bent by leigh bardugo / jan. 26-31 / 4 stars

all about love: new visions by bell hooks / jan. 22-31 / 4 stars

daisy jones & the six by taylor jenkins reid / jan. 31-feb. 2 / 4 stars

everything i know about love: a memoir by dolly alderton / feb. 2-9 / 4 stars

emma by jane austen / feb. 11-19 / 4 stars

fake it till you bake it by jamie wesley / feb 19-23 / 3.5 stars

my dark vanessa by kate elizabeth russell / feb. 23-26 / 4 stars

throttled by lauren asher / feb. 26-28/ 2 stars

the locker room by meghan quinn / mar. 1-5 / 1 star

come as you are: the surprising new science that will transform your sex life by emily nagoski / feb. 17-mar. 5 / 4.5 stars

pucked by helena hunting / mar. 5-11 / 3 stars

legendborn by tracy deonn / mar 12-23 / 4.5 stars

unadulterated something by m.j. duncan / mar. 23-25 / 4 stars

the fifth season by n.k. jemisin / mar. 26-apr. 15 / 4 stars

how to fake it in hollywood by ava wilder / apr. 16-19 / 3.5 stars

sharp objects by gillian flynn / apr. 19-22 / 4 stars

the homewreckers by mary kay andrews / apr. 22-25 / 3.5 stars

the kiss curse by erin sterling / apr. 25-26 / 3.5 stars

the wedding crasher by mia sosa / apr. 26-27 / 3 stars

let’s get physical: how women discovered exercise and reshaped the world by danielle friedman / mar. 25-apr. 27 / 4 stars

mile high by liz tomforde / apr. 27-may 6 / 1.5 stars

happy place by emily henry / may 6-7 / 5 stars

carrie soto is back by taylor jenkins reid / may 7 / 4 stars

the spanish love deception by elena armas / may 8 / 2 stars

neon gods by katee robert / may 8-9 / 1 star

love in the time of serial killers by alicia thompson / may 9-11 / 4 stars

the bodyguard by katherine center / may 11 / 4 stars

the intimacy experiment by rosie danan / may 11-12 / 3 stars

upgrade by blake crouch / may 12-13 / 4 stars

by any other name by lauren kate / may 13 / 3 stars

the dead romantics by ashley poston / may 15-17 / 4 stars

the ballad of songbirds and snakes by suzanne collins / may 19-28 / 3.5 stars

so many ways to lose: the amazin’ true story of the new york mets—the best worst team in baseball by devin gordon / may 13-jun. 4 / 4 stars

iron widow by xiran jay zhao / jun. 5-7 / 3 stars

the grace year by kim liggett / jun. 7-8 / 4 stars

the last magician by lisa maxwell / jun. 9-11 / 4.5 stars

little fires everywhere by celeste ng / jun. 12-14 / 4 stars

not a happy family by shari lapena / jun. 14-17 / 2.5 stars

the familiars by stacey halls / jun. 17-21 / 3 stars

the girls i’ve been by tess sharpe / jun. 21-22 / 3.5 stars

once more with feeling by elissa sussman / jun. 23 / 3 stars

the cheat sheet by sarah adams / jun. 24-25 / 1 star

how to sell a haunted house by grady hendrix / jun. 26-29 / 3 stars

little thieves by margaret owen / jul. 1-3 / 4.5 stars

this is how you lose the time war by amal el-mohtar and max gladstone / jul. 3-6 / 3 stars

the very secret society of irregular witches by sangu mandanna / jul. 11-12 / 4 stars

the lies of locke lamora by scott lynch / jul. 13-27 / 4.5 stars

seven days in june by tia williams / jul. 28-30 / 4 stars

bloodmarked by tracy deonn / jul. 31-aug. 2 / 4 stars

something wilder by christina lauren / aug. 3-4 / 3 stars

howl’s moving castle by diana wynne jones / aug. 4-5 / 4 stars

dark matter by blake crouch / aug. 12-13 / 3 stars

eat up! food, appetite, and eating what you want by ruby tandoh / jul. 30-aug. 14 / 4 stars

the silent companions by laura purcell / aug. 5-18 / 4 stars

mr. wrong number by lynn painter / aug. 19-20 / 2 stars

romantic comedy by curtis sittenfeld / aug. 20-21 / 4 stars

the last tale of the flower bride by roshani chokshi / aug. 21-23 / 4 stars

the hating game by sally thorne / aug. 23-25 / 2 stars

lessons in chemistry by bonnie garmus / aug. 25-26 / 2.5 stars

the godparent trap by rachel van dyken / aug. 27 / 2 stars

i’m glad my mom died by jennette mccurdy / aug. 27-29 / 4 stars

the atlas six by olivie blake / aug. 29-sep. 9 / 3 stars

wordslut: a feminist guide to taking back the english language by amanda montell / sep. 1-9 / 4 stars

practice makes perfect by sarah adams / sep. 10-11 / 3 stars

all systems red by martha wells / sep. 13-14 / 3 stars

do i know you? by emily wibberly and austin siegemund-broka / sep. 14-16 / 4 stars

same time next summer by annabel monaghan / sep. 17 / 3.5 stars

Ounder the influence by noelle crooks / sep. 18-22 / 4 stars

burn for me by ilona andrews / sep. 22-23 / 4 stars

the littlest library by poppy alexander / sep. 24 / 3 stars

the neighbor favor by kristina forest / sep. 25-27 / 3 stars

satisfaction guaranteed by karelia stetz-waters / sep. 28-oct. 5 / 3 stars

the ex talk by rachel lynn solomon / oct. 5-7 / 4 stars

change of plans by dylan newton / oct. 8-9 / 2 stars

coraline by neil gaiman / oct. 9 / 4 stars

you, again by kate goldbeck / oct. 9-11 / 3 stars

mrs. caliban by rachel ingalls / oct. 12 / 3 stars

summer sons by lee mandelo / oct. 12-19 / 4 stars

the death of jane lawrence by caitlin starling / oct. 19-24 / 3 stars

house of hollow by krystal sutherland / oct. 25-29 / 4 stars

white hot by ilona andrews / oct. 28-nov. 2 / 4.5 stars

twice shy by sarah hogle / nov. 4-5 / 3 stars

sexed up: how society sexualizes us, and how we can fight back by julia serano / nov. 2-10 / 4 stars

artificial condition by martha wells / nov. 11-14 / 4 stars

wildfire by ilona andrews / nov. 14-16 / 4.5 stars

between a fox and a hard place by mary frame / nov. 18 / 3 stars

revolting prostitutes: the fight for sex workers’ rights by molly smith and juno mac / nov. 18-20 / 4 stars

emily wilde’s encyclopaedia of faeries by heather fawcett / nov. 21-24 / 4.5 stars

love and other words by christina lauren / nov. 24-25 / 3 stars

the boyfriend candidate by ashley winstead / nov. 26 / 3.5 stars

the seven year slip by ashley poston / nov. 27-28 / 5 stars

how to fall out of love madly by jana casale / dec. 3-10 / 3 stars

ordinary monsters by j.m. miro / dec. 10-21 / 3 stars

rogue protocol by martha wells / dec. 22-23 / 4 stars

what you wish for by katherine center / dec. 25 / 3 stars

the blonde identity by ally carter / dec. 25-26 / 2.5 stars

just my type by falon ballard / dec. 26-31 / 2 stars

[brandonshimoda]

THE BOOKS I READ IN 2023

*I read it before

**I read it more than once this year

Aaron Caycedo-Kimura, Common Grace

Adania Shibli, Minor Detail, translated from the Arabic by Elisabeth Jaquette

Ahmad Almallah, Bitter English

Alison Lubar, It Skips a Generation

Atef Abu Saif, The Drone Eats With Me: A Gaza Diary

Brynn Saito, Under a Future Sky

Camonghne Felix, Dyscalculia: A Love Story of Epic Miscalculation

*Carolina Ebeid, You Ask Me to Talk About the Interior

Chanté L. Reid, Thot

*Christina Sharpe, Ordinary Notes

Christine Shan Shan Hou & Vi Khi Nao, Evolution of the Bullet

Christopher Okigbo, Labyrinths (with Paths of Thunder)

Cristina Rivera Garza, Liliana’s Invincible Summer

Dionne Brand, Chronicles of the Hostile Sun

*Dionne Brand, No Language is Neutral

Dionne Brand, Primitive Offensive

Édouard Louis, Who Killed My Father, translated from the French by Lorin Stein

**Emily Lee Luan, 回 / Return

Erin Marie Lynch, Removal Acts

Fady Joudah, Footnotes in the Order of Disappearance

Farid Tali, Prosopopoeia, translated from the French by Aditi Machado

Gabriel Palacios, A Ten Peso Burial For Which Truth Is Sign (coming out 2024)

Ghayath Almadhoun, Adrenalin, translated from the Arabic by Catherine Cobham

Hauntie, To Whitey & The Cracker Jack

Hervé Guibert, To the friend who did not save my life, translated from the French by Linda Coverdale

Hiromi Ito, Tree Spirits Grass Spirits, translated from the Japanese by Jon L. Pitt

*James Baldwin, No Name in the Street

*James Baldwin, Nobody Knows My Name

*James Baldwin, The Devil Finds Work

James Fujinami Moore, Indecent Hours

Jami Nakamura Lin, The Night Parade

Jawdat Fakhreddine, Lighthouse for the Drowning, translated from the Arabic by Huda Fakhreddine and Jayson Iwen

Jed Munson, Commentary on the Birds

Jennifer Hayashida, A Machine Wrote This Song

Jenny Odell, Inhabiting The Negative Space

Jenny Xie, The Rupture Tense

*Joy Kogawa, A Choice of Dreams

Joy Kogawa, A Garden of Anchors: Selected Poems

**Joy Kogawa, From the Lost and Found Department: New and Selected Poems

Joy Kogawa, Gently to Nagasaki

*Joy Kogawa, Jericho Road

*Joy Kogawa, Obasan

Joy Kogawa, The Rain Ascends

Joy Kogawa, The Splintered Moon

*Joy Kogawa, Woman in the Woods

Juan Felipe Herrera, Akrílica, eds. Farid Matuk, Carmen Giménez, Anthony Cody

Kamo-no-Chomei, Hojoki: Visions of a Torn World, translated from the Japanese by Yasuhiko Moriguchi and David Jenkins

Keorapetse Kgositsile, Collected Poems, 1969-2018

*Kiku Hughes, Displacement

Kōno Taeko, Toddler-Hunting, translated from the Japanese by Lucy North

Leila Khaled, My People Shall Live: Autobiography of a Revolutionary, as told to George Hajjar

Lena Khalaf Tuffaha, Kaan and Her Sisters

**Lindsey Webb, Plat (coming out in 2024)

Lisa Hsiao Chen, Activities of Daily Living

Liyana Badr, A Balcony over the Fakihani, translated from the Arabic by Peter Clark with Christopher Tingley

Lucille Clifton, An Ordinary Woman

*Lucille Clifton, Blessing the Boats

Lucille Clifton, Good News About the Earth

Lucille Clifton, Good Times

Lucille Clifton, Two-Headed Woman

Mahmoud Darwish, The Butterfly’s Burden, translated from the Arabic by Fady Joudah

Mahmoud Darwish, If I Were Another, translated from the Arabic by Fady Joudah

Mahmoud Darwish, Palestine as Metaphor, translated from the Arabic by Amira El-Zein and Carolyn Forché

Maya Abu Al-Hayyat, You Can Be The Last Leaf, translated from the Arabic by Fady Joudah

Maya Marshall, All the Blood Involved in Love

Michael Prior, Model Disciple

*Mitsuye Yamada, Camp Notes and Other Poems

Mitsuye Yamada, Full Circle: New and Selected Poems

Mohammed El-Kurd, RIFQA

**Mosab Abu Toha, Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear

Mourid Barghouti, I Saw Ramallah, translated from the Arabic by Ahdaf Soueif

Mourid Barghouti, I Was Born There, I Was Born Here, translated from the Arabic by Humphrey Davies

Mourid Barghouti, Midnight, translated from the Arabic by Radwa Ashour

Na Mira, The Book of Na

Najwan Darwish, Nothing More to Lose, translated from the Arabic by Kareem James Abu-Zeid

Natsume Sōseki, Kokoro, translated from the Japanese by Edwin McClellan

Nona Fernández, Voyager: Constellations of Memory, translated from the Spanish by Natasha Wimmer

Noor Hindi, DEAR GOD. DEAR BONES. DEAR YELLOW.

Osamu Dazai, No Longer Human, translated from the Japanese by Donald Keene

Osamu Dazai, The Flowers of Buffoonery, translated from the Japanese by Sam Bett

The Palestinian Wedding: A Bilingual Anthology of Contemporary Palestinian Resistance Poetry, edited and translated from the Arabic by A.M. Elmessiri

R.F. Kuang, Yellowface

Ryunosuke Akutagawa, Kappa, translated from Japanese by Lisa Hofmann-Kuroda and Allison Markin Powell

Salim Barakat, Come, Take a Gentle Stab: Selected Poems, translated from the Arabic by Huda J. Fakhreddine and Jayson Iwen

Samih Al-Qasim, All Faces But Mine, translated from the Arabic by Abdulwahid Lu’lu’a

Samih al-Qasim, Sadder Than Water: New & Selected Poems, translated from the Arabic by Nazih Kassis

*Saretta Morgan, Alt-Nature (coming out in 2024)

Satsuki Ina, The Poet and the Silk Girl (coming out in 2024)

Sawako Ariyoshi, The Twilight Years, translated from the Japanese by Mildred Tahara

Shailja Patel, Migritude

Sham-e-Ali Nayeem, City of Pearls

Sharon Yamato, Moving Walls

Shivanee Ramlochan, Everyone Knows I Am a Haunting

**shō yamagushiku, shima (coming out in 2014)

Shuri Kido, Names and Rivers, translated from the Japanese by Tomoyuki Endo and Forrest Gander

*Solmaz Sharif, Customs

Stella Corso, Green Knife

*Taha Muhammad Ali, Never Mind: Twenty Poems and a Story, translated from the Arabic by Peter Cole, Yahya Hijazi, Gabriel Levin

Terry Watada, The Game of 100 Ghosts (Hyaku Monogatari Kwaidan-kai)

Victoria Chang, Obit

*Wong May, Superstitions

THE BOOKS I'M CURRENTLY READING, THAT I HAVEN'T FINISHED YET

Chi Rainer Bornfree and Ragini Tharoor Srinivasan, The Portal (not yet published)

Elaine Castillo, How to Read Now

Eqbal Ahmad, The Selected Writings

Essays, ed. Dorothea Lasky

Fadwa Tuqan, A Mountainous Journey: A Poet's Autobiography, translated from the Arabic by Olive Kenny

James Welch, Winter in the Blood

Lan P. Duong, Nothing Follows

Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore, Touching the Art

Preti Taneja, Aftermath

Wanda Coleman, Wicked Enchantment

[ultimate-fucked-up-ship-tourney]

Also, potential list of the yandere characters under the read more!

1. Cutthroat from Akudama Drive

2. Belphegor (Obey Me)

3. Griffith (Berserk)

4. Mimimi, Hypnosis Mic

5. Zenos yae Galvus from Final Fantasy 14

6. Shion Sonozaki from Higurashi

7. Yandere-Chan from Carflo + co's Yandere High School Minecraft Roleplay series

8. Luo Binghe, Scum Villain’s Self Saving System

9. Monica Campanella, Baccano!

10. Creed, Black Cat

11. Seiko, Blood on the Tracks

12. Makima, Chainsaw Man

13. Mao, Code Geass

14. Mariko Shinobu, Dear Brother

15. Mika Harima, Durarara

16. Akito Sohma, Fruits Baskrt

17. Shigure Sohma, Fruits Basket

18. Yuno Gasai, Future Diary

19. Satou, Happy Sugar Life

20. Yukako Yamagishi, JJBA Diamond is Unbreakable

21. Himiko Toga, My Hero Academia

22. Haru, My Little Monster

23. Oz, Pandora Hearts

24. Kuroi, Thou Shalt Not Die

25. Seishirou, Tokyo Babylon

26. Kish, Tokyo Mew Mew

27. Asami, Audition

28. Lucille Sharpe, Crimson Peak

29. Alex Forrest, Fatal Attraction

30. Jareth, Labyrinth

31. Annie Wilkes, Misery

32. Evelyn Draper, Play Misty for Me

33. Charlie Stoker, Stoker

34. Nellie Lovett, Sweeney Todd

35. Victor Frankenstein, The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein

36. Frollo, Hunchback of Notre Dame

37. Erik, Phantom of the Opera

38. Fu Shenxing, Who is the Prey

39. Heathcliff, Wuthering Heights

40. Joe Goldberg, You

41. Missy, Doctor Who

42. Lestat, Interview with the Vampire

43. Kilgrave, Jessica Jones

44. Masato Kisaka, Kamen Rider 555

45. Siyun Baek, Dreaming Freedom

46. Tomoya/Sam, He’s Harmless I swear

47. Morae Baek, I don’t want this kind of hero

48. Lady, I don’t want this kind of hero

49. Yuta, Kubera

50. Thaddeus, Madame Outlaw

51. Yunsu, Trapped

52. JD, Heathers

53. Erik, Yeston and Kopit Phantom

54. Der Tod, Elisabeth

55. Callisto, Villains Are Destined to Die

56. Hannibal, Hannibal

57. Reinhart, I failed to oust the villain

58. Yul, Secret Alliance

59. Hananoi, A Condition Called Love

60. Naoka Ueno, A Silent Voice

61. Sumireko Hanabusa, Akuma no Riddle

62. Esdeath, Akame ga Kill

63. Dracula, Bram Stoker’s Dracula

64. Mashiro Mai, Dead Tube

65. Monika, Doki Doki Literature Club

66. Lucy, Elfen Lied

67. Juvia, Fairy Tail

68. Mimi. flip flappers

69. Akise Aru, Future Diary

70. Elena Aoki, Gleipnir

71. Hades, Hadestown

72. shuu iwamine, Hatoful Boyfriend

73. Luka, Alien Stage

74. LT. Oscar, Lupin the III, The Woman Called Fujiko Mine

75. Sumin Jeong, Marry My Husband

76. Reiko Ichijou, Migi and Dali

77. Diane Selwyn, Mulholland Drive

78. Harry MacDougall, Outlaw Star

79. Root, Person of Interest

80. Jackson Rippner, Red Eye

81. Kozue Kaoru, Revolutionary Girl Utena

82. Seyoung Jin, Surviving Romance

83. Sudou Kayo, Tailer of Enbizaka

84. Hayase, To Your Eternity

85. Tooru Mutsuki, Tokyo Ghoul RE

86. Kichimura Washuu, Tokyo Ghoul RE

87. The Creature, Lisa Frankenstein

88. Pig, Disco Pigs

89. Shinpei, Firefly Wedding

90. Aiko, Goodnight Punpun

91. Sal, Wadanonara

92. Jung, Cheese in the Trap

93. Khalid, From a knight to a lady

94. Margot, Gremoryland

95. Bibi, I love Amy

96. Kairos, I Shall Kill that Sweet Devil

[howieabel]

Gioconda and Si-Ya-U (*)

by Nâzım Hikmet Ran

Trans. by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk 1993

    to the memory of my friend SI-YA-U,     whose head was cut of in Shanghai. (GIOCONDA AND SI-YA-U: Si-Ya-U, Hsiao San (b. 1896), Chinese revolutionary and man of letters. Hikmet met him in Moscow in 1922 and believed he had been executed in the bloody 1927 crackdown on Shanghai radicals after returning to China via Paris in 1924, when the Mona Lisa did in fact disappear from the Louvre. The two friends were reunited in Vienna in 1951 and traveled to Peking together in 1952. Translated into Chinese, this poem was later burned-along with Hsiao's works - in the Cultural Revolution.)

A CLAIM

Renowned Leonardo's world-famous "La Gioconda" has disappeared. And in the space vacated by the fugitive a copy has been placed. The poet inscribing the present treatise knows more than a little about the fate of the real Gioconda. She fell in love with a seductive graceful youth; a honey-tongued almond-eyed Chinese named Si-Ya-U. Gioconda ran off after her lover; Gioconda was burned in a Chinese city. I, Nazim Hikmet, authority on this matter, thumbing my nose at friend and foe five times a day, undaunted claim I can prove it; if I can't, I'll be ruined and banished forever from the realm of poesy.     1928

Part One Excerpts from Gioconda's Diary

"15 March 1924; Pairs, Louvre Museum" At last I am bored with the Louvre Museum. You can get fed up with boredom very fast. I am fed up with my boredom. And from the devastation inside me I drew this lesson;   to visit   a museum is fine, to be in a museum piece is terrible! In this place that imprisons the past I am placed under such a heavy sentence that as the paint on my face cracks out of boredom I'm forced to keep grinning without letting up. Because I am the Gioconda from Florence whose smile is more famous than Florence. I am bored with the Louvre Museum. And since you get sick soon enough   of conversing with the past, I decided from now on to keep a diary. Writing of today may be of some help   in forgetting yesterday... However, the Louvre is a strange place. Here you might find Alexander the Great's Longines watch complete with chronometer, but not a single sheet of clean notebook paper or a pencil worth a piaster. Damn your Louvre, your Paris. I'll write these entries   on the back of my canvas. And so when I picked a pen from the pocket of a nearsighted American sticking his red nose into my skirts -his hair stinking of wine-       I started my memoirs. I'm writing on my back the sorrow of having a famous smile... "18 March: Night" The Louvre has fallen asleep. In the dark, the armless Venus     looks like a veteran of the Great War. The gold helmet of a knight gleams as the light from the night watchman's lantern       strikes a dark picture. Here in the Louvre   my days are all the same   like the six sides of a wood cube. My head is full of sharp smells   like the shelf of a medicine cabinet. "20 March" I admire those Flemish painters: is it easy to give the air of a naked goddess         to the plump ladies of milk and sausage merchants? But even if you wear silk panties, cow + silk panties = cow. Last night a window   was left open. The naked Flemish goddesses caught cold. All day today,   turning their bare mountain-like pink behinds to the public, they coughed and sneezed... I caught cold, too. So as not to look silly smiling with a cold, I tried to hide my sniffles       from the visitors. "1 April" Today I saw a Chinese: he was nothing like those Chinese with their topknots. How long he gazed at me! I'm well aware the favor of Chinese     who work ivory like silk       is not to be taken lightly... "11 April" I caught the name of the Chinese who comes every day:           SI-YA-U. "16 April" Today we spoke in the language of eyes. He works as a weaver days and studies nights. Now it's a long time since the night came on like a pack of black-shirted Fascists. The cry of a man out of work who jumped into the Seine rose from the dark water. And ah! you on whose fist-size head   mountain-like winds descend, at this very minute you're probably busy building towers of thick, leather-bound books to get answers to the questions you asked of the stars. READ SI-YA-U READ... And when your eyes find in the lines what they desire         when your eyes tire, rest your tired head     like a black-and-yellow Japanese chrysanthemum           on the books..           SLEEP             SI-YA-U             SLEEP... "18 April" I've begun to forget the names of those Renaissance masters. I want to see the black bird-and-flower         watercolors that slant-eyed Chinese painters             drip from their long thin bamboo brushes.

NEWS FROM THE PARIS WIRELESS

HALLO   HALLO   HALLO PARIS   PARIS   PARIS... Voices race through the air     like the fiery greyhounds. The wireless in the Eiffel Tower calls out: HALLO   HALLO   HALLO PARIS   PARIS   PARIS... "I, TOO, am Oriental - this voice is for me. My ears are receivers, too. I, too, must listen to Eiffel." News from China   News from China       News from China: The dragon that came down from the Kaf mountains       has spread his wings across the golden skies of the Chinese homelands. But in this business it's not only the British lord's gullet shaved   like the thick neck         of a plucked hen that will be cut but also   the long     thin     beard of Confucius!

FROM GIOCONDA'S DIARY

"21 April" Today my Chinese     looked my straight in the eye and asked: "Those who crush our rice fields with the caterpillar treads of their tanks and who swagger through our cities like emperors of hell, are they of YOUR race, the race of him who CREATED you?" I almost raised my hand and cried "No!" "27 April" Tonight at the blare of an American trumpet -the horn of a 12-horsepower Ford-       I awoke from a dream, and what I glimpsed for an instant       instantly vanished. What I'd seen was a still blue lake. In this lake the slant-eyed light of my life had wrapped his fingers around the neck of a gilded fish. I tried to reach him, my boat a Chinese teacup and my sail   the embroidered silk     of a Japanese       bamboo umbrella...

FNEWS FROM THE PARIS WIRELESS

HALLO   HALLO   HALLO PARIS   PARIS   PARIS... The radio station signs off. Once more   blue-shirted Parisians     fill Paris with red voices     and red colors...

FROM GIOCONDA'S DIARY

"2 May" Today my Chinese failed to show up. "5 May" Still no sign of him... "8 May" My days   are like the waiting room         of a station: eyes glued   to the tracks... "10 May" Sculptors of Greece, painters of Seljuk china, weavers of fiery rugs in Persia, chanters of hymns to dromedaries in deserts, dancer whose body undulates like a breeze, craftsman who cuts thirty-six facets from a one-carat stone, and YOU   who have five talents on your five fingers,     master MICHELANGELO! Call out and announce to both friends and foe: because he made too much noise in Paris, because he smashed in the window     of the Mandarin ambassador, Gioconda's lover     has been thrown out         of France... My lover from China has gone back to China... And now I'd like to know who's Romeo and Juliet! If he isn't Juliet in pants       and I'm not Romeo in skirts... Ah,if I could cry-     if only I could cry... "12 May"   Today   when I caught a glimpse of myself     in the mirror of some mother's daughter touching up the paint     on her bloody mouth in front of me, the tin crown of my fame shattered on my head. While the desire to cry writhes inside me         I smile demurely; like a stuffed pig's head       my ugly face grins on... Leonardo da Vinci,   may your bones     become the brush of a Cubist painter for grabbing me by the throat - your hands dripping with paint - and sticking in my mouth like a gold-plated tooth this cursed smile...

Part Two The Flight

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

Ah, friends, Gioconda is in a bad way... Take it from me,   if she didn't have hopes   of getting word from afar, she'd steal a guard's pistol,   and aiming to give the color of death to her lips' cursed smile,   she'd empty it into her canvas breast...

FROM GIOCONDA'S DIARY

O that Leonardo da Vinci's brush had conceived me     under the gilded sun of China! That the painted mountain behind me had been a sugar-loaf Chinese mountain, that the pink-white color of my long face could fade, that my eyes were almond-shaped! And if only my smile   could show what I feel in my heart! Then in the arms of him who is far away   I could have roamed through China...

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

I had a heart-to-heart talk with Gioconda today. The hours flew by     one after another like the pages of a spell-binding book. And the decision we reached will cut like a knife Gioconda's life         in two. Tomorrow night you'll see us carry it out...

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

The clock of Notre Dame       strikes midnight. Midnight   midnight. Who knows at this very moment   which drunk is killing his wife? Who know at this very moment   which ghost     is haunting the halls         of a castle? Who knows at this very moment   which thief     is surmounting       the most unsurmountable wall? Midnight... Midnight... Who knows at this very moment... I know very well that in every novel       this is the darkest hour. Midnight   strikes fear into the heart of every reader... But what could I do? When my monoplane landed     on the roof of the Louvre, the clock of Notre Dame struck midnight. And, strangely enough, I wasn't afraid as I patted the aluminum rump of my plane       and stepped down on the roof... Uncoiling the fifty-fathom-long rope wound around my waist, I lowered it outside Gioconda's window like a vertical bridge between heaven and hell. I blew my shrill whistle three times. And I got an immediate response to those three shrill whistles. Gioconda threw open her window. This poor farmer's daughter     done up as the Virgin Mary chucked her gilded frame and, grabbing hold of the rope, pulled herself up... SI-YA-U, my friend,   you were truly lucky to fall to a lion-hearted woman like her...

FROM GIOCONDA'S DIARY

This thing called an airplane     is a winged iron horse. Below us is Paris with its Eiffel Tower-   a sharp-nosed, pock-marked, moon-like face. We're climbing,   climbing higher. Like an arrow of fire   we pierce       the darkness. The heavens rise overhead,       looming closer; the sky is like a meadow full of flowers.     we're climbing,         climbing higher. ................................................... ................................................... ................................................... I must have dozed off -   I opened my eyes. Dawn's moment of glory. The sky a calm ocean, our plane a ship. I call this smooth sailing, smooth as butter. Behind us a wake of smoke floats. Our eyes survey blue vacancies full of glittering discs... Below us the earth looks   like a Jaffa orange     turning gold in the sun... By what magic have I   climbed off the ground     hundreds of minarets high, and yet to gaze down at the earth   my mouth still waters...

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

Now our plane swims   within the hot winds     swarming over Africa. Seen from above,   Africa looks like a huge violin. I swear they're playing Tchaikovsky on a cello     on the angry dark island         of Africa. And waiving his long hairy arms,     a gorilla is sobbing...

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

We're crossing the Indian Ocean. We're drinking in the air   like a heavy, faint-smelling syrup. An keeping our eyes on the yellow beacon of Singapore - leaving Australia on the right,   Madagascar on the left - and putting our faith in the fuel in the tank,   we're heading for the China Sea... "from the journal of a deckhand named John aboard a British vessel in the China Sea" One night a typhoon blows up out of the blue. Man, what a hurricane! Mounted on the back of yellow devil, the Mother of God   whirls around and around, churning up the air. And as luck would have it,   I've got the watch on the foretop. The huge ship under me   looks about this big! The wind is roaring blast   after blast,       blast       after blast The mast quivers like a strung bow.(*) *[What business do you have being way up there?   Christ, man, what do you think you are-a stork? N.H.] Oops, now we're shooting sky-high --     my head splits the clouds. Oops, now we're sinking to the bottom --     my fingers comb the ocean floor. We're learning to the left, we're leaning to the right -- that is, we're leaning larboard and starboard. My God, we just sank!   Oh no! This time we're sure to go under! The waves leap over my head     like Bengal tigers. Fear leads me on   like a coffee-colored Javanese whore. This is no joke - this is the China Sea... (*) *[The deckhand has every right to be afraid.     The rage of the China Sea is not to be taken lightly. N.H.] Okay, let's keep it short. PLOP... What's that? A rectangular piece of canvas dropped from the air         into the crows nest. The canvas   was some kind of woman! It struck me this madame who came from the sky would never understand     our seamen's talk and ways. I got right down and kissed her hand, and making like a poet, I cried: "O you canvas woman who fell from the sky! Tell me, which goddess should I compare you to? Why did you descend here? What is your large purpose?" She replied: "I fell   from a 550-horsepower plane. My name is Gioconda,   I come from Florence. I must get to Shanghai     as soon as possible.'

FROM GIOCONDA'S DIARY

The wind died down,   the sea calmed down. The ship makes strides toward Shanghai. The sailors dream,   rocking in their sailcloth hammocks. A song of the Indian Ocean plays     on their thick fleshy lips: "The fire of the Indochina sun warms the blood   like Malacca wine. They lure sailors to gilded stars,       those Indochina nights,         those Indochina nights. Slant-eyed yellow Bornese cabin boys knifed in Sigapore bars paint the iron-belted barrels blood-red. Those Indochina nights, those Indochina nights. A ship plunges on to Canton, 55,000 tons. Those Indochina nights... As the moon swims in the heavens like the corpse of a blue-eyed sailor     tossed overboard, Bombay watches, leaning on its elbow...       Bombay moon,         Arabian Sea. The fire of the Indochina sun warms the blood   lie Malacca wine. They lure sailors to gilded stars,     those Indochina nights,       those Indochina nights..."

Part Three Gioconda's End THE CITY OF SHANGHAI

Shanghai is a big port, an excellent port, It's ships are taller than horned mandarin mansions. My, my! What a strange place, this Shanghai... In the blue river boats with straw sails float. In the straw-sailed boats naked coolies sort rice,     raving of rice... My, my! What a strange place, this Shanghai... Shanghai is a big port, The whites' ships are tall, the yellows' boats are small. Shanghai is pregnant with a red-headed child. My, my!

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

Last night when the ship entered the harbor Gioconda's foot kissed the land. Shanghai the soup, she the ladle, she searched high and low for her SI-YA-U.

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

"Chinese work! Japanese work! Only two people make this - a man and a woman. Chinese work! Japanese work! Just look at the art in this latest work of LI-LI-FU." Screaming at the tip of his voice, the Chinese magician     LI. His shriveled yellow spider of a hand tossed long thin knives into the air: one one more   one   one more     five       one more. Tracing lightning-like circles in the air, his knives flew up in a steady stream. Gioconda looked, she kept looking,     she'd still be looking but, like a large-colored Chinese lantern,   the crowd swayed and became confused: "Stand back! Gang way! Chiang Kai-shek's executioner   is hunting down a new head. Stand back! Gang way!" One in front and one close behind, two Chinese shot around the corner. The one in front ran toward Gioconda. The one racing toward her, it was him, it was him - yes, him! Her SI-YA-U,   her dove,   SI-YA-U... A dull hollow stadium sound surrounded them. And in the cruel English language   stained red with the blood     of yellow Asia     the crown yelled: "He's catching up, he's catching up,     he caught-       catch him!" Just, three steps away from Gioconda's arms Chiang Kai-shek's executioner caught up. His sword   flashed... Thud of cut flesh and bone. Like a yellow sun drenched in blood SI-YA-U's head   rolled at her feet... And this on a death day Gioconda of Florence lost in Shanghai her smile more famous than Florence.

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

A Chinese bamboo frame. In the frame is a painting. Under the painting, a name:       "La Gioconda"... In the frame is a painting: the eyes of the painting are burning, burning. In the frame is painting: the painting in the frame comes alive, alive. And suddenly the painting jumped out of the frame   as if from a window;   her feet hit the ground. And just as I shouted her name she stood up straight before me: the giant woman of a colossal struggle. She walked ahead. I trailed behind. From the blazing red Tibetan sun to the China Sea   we went and came,   we came and went. I saw Gioconda   sneak out under the cover of darkness through the gates of a city in enemy hands; I saw her in a skirmish of drawn bayonets   strangle a British officer; I saw her t the head of a blue stream swimming with stars wash the lice from her dirty shirt... Huffling and puffling, a wood-burning engine dragged behind it forty red cars seating forty people each. The cars passed one by one. In the last car I saw her standing watch:   a frayed lambskin hat on her head,       boots on her feet, a leather jacket on her back...

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

Ah, my patient reader! Now we find ourselves in the French military court in Shanghai. The bench: four generals, fourteen colonels, and an armed black Congolese regiment. The accused: Gioconda. The attorney for the defense: an overly razed -that is, overly artistic-     French painter. The scene is set.     We're starting. "The defense attorney presents his case:" "Gentlemen, this masterpiece that stands in your presence as the accused is the most accomplished daughter of a great artist. Gentlemen, this masterpiece... Gentlemen... my mind is on fire... Gentlemen... Renaissance... Gentlemen, this masterpiece-   twice this masterpiece... Gentlemen, uniformed gentlemen..." "C-U-U-U-T! Enough. stop sputtering like a jammed machine gun! Bailiff, read the verdict." "The bailiff reads the verdict:" "The laws of France have been violated in China by the above-named Gioconda, daughter of one Leonardo. Accordingly, we sentence the accused   to death   by burning. And tomorrow night at moonrise, a Senegalese regiment   will execute said decision       of this military court..."

THE BURNING

Shanghai is a big port. The whites' ships are tall, the yellows' boats small. A thick whistle.   A thin Chinese scream. A ship steaming into the harbor   capsized a straw-sailed boat... Moonlight. Night. Handcuffed,   gioconda waits. Blow, wind, blow... A voice: "All right, the lighter. Burn, Gioconda, burn..." A silhouette advances, a flash... They lit the lighter and set Gioconda on fire. The flames painted Gioconda red. She laughed with a smile that came from her heart. Gioconda burned laughing... Art, Shmart, Masterpiece, Shmasterpiece, And so On, And So Forth, Immortality, Eternity-       H-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-Y...   "HERE ENDS MY TALE'S CONTENDING, THE REST IS LIES UNENDING..."       THE END       1929

[mortemhq]

MERLIN’S BEARD, VIOLET GREYBACK (LISA YAMADA), IS THAT YOU? it’s been so long – i thought you might’ve been dead! i mean, you never know in times like these. well, it’s good to have you back in the fight. come on now, there’s no time to waste – we need you to re-enter the fray within the next 48 hours, or else i fear all might be lost. don’t let us down – the world is counting on you.

[ she/her, cis woman ] greetings to all of our listeners! we start today’s potterwatch with a long-awaited update on violet greyback who was finally spotted alive just last night, wandering the streets of london. for those of you who haven’t tuned in before, they are a 22 year old pure-blood (werewolf) witch who is oddly reminiscent of dead violets pressed between diary pages; being torn between loyalties, the only father you've ever known or the siblings you seek comfort in; dark eyes drinking in the growing moonlight, preparing for what is to come; a docile smile that hides sharp canines; godhood is just like girlhood — a begging to be believed, which makes sense considering their faithful, adventurous, receptive, impulsive, judgemental, and enigmatic nature. you might know of them as the adopted child of fenrir greyback, and we’re sure that their family will be relieved to hear they’re safe and sound — or at least as much as you can be, in times like this. to all our listeners, if you catch a glimpse of someone who looks a bit like that muggle lisa yamada, that’s them. before approaching, please be aware that they’re rumored to be affiliated with the death eaters, so best proceed with caution. these are dangerous times we’re living in. well, thanks for tuning in, folks. we’ll play ourselves out with moonlight by chase atlantic. [ kier, 27, she/they, gmt-5 ]

[edmturnmeon]

Fujicolor Pro 400H Film Recipe For Fujifilm X-Trans IV Cameras

Japanese Color Tone for Fujifilm X-Trans IV Cameras

Mood: Japanese, Vintage, Blueish Cool Honestly, the Fujicolor Pro 400H film recipe is one of the most complex Fujifilm recipes I have ever created. This was made based on the actual sample photos of discontinued 35mm Fujicolor Pro 400H film stock. I was happy to have the Fujicolor Pro 400H as the latest addition to my Fujifilm recipes which has the characteristic Japanese film-look colour tone. This Japanese film-like recipe is not created just by referring to Google image search but from the actual 120mm film photos like the images below. I like the blueish tone of this film and so I've decided to create based on this colour palette.

Hasselblad 500 C/M // Fujicolor Pro 400H - Photo credit - Lisa Marie Kaspar

Pentacon Six TL // Fujicolor Pro 400H - Photo credit - antmark

Rolleiflex 3.5E // Fujicolor Pro 400H - Photo credit - kalloflexia

What Is Fujicolor Pro 400H Film Recipe All About?

This is one of the hardest and most complex ways during the creation of this film recipe. This film-like recipe is based on the Classic Negative and required certain lighting conditions to achieve the look. There are no right or wrong when creating a film recipe, because of the constant changing of lighting conditions, expired films, lens quality or different camera settings, the tone will certainly be changed as well too. If you are into film photography you will certainly know what I mean. Whenever you're shooting with this Fujicolor Pro 400H film recipe make sure you have your compensation exposure set and expose your shot properly because this film recipe required you to overexpose one stop or more. I'm sure you don't want to ruin your holiday photos just like that or forget to set to shoot JPEG+RAW (this happened to me for few times) but ended up shooting on SOOC JPEGs but in the end, you don't like the results. But still, I do like SOOC JPEG, not much editing is needed.The Shadow setting of this Fujicolor Pro 400H is set to +2, so you need to shoot overexpose to compensate according to your liking and to brighten your photo to get the tone to shine. If you like more contrast and deep blueish green, then you can shoot slightly overexposed. The Clarity is set to -2 to create a little dreamy look but it is better if you use the FX filters to create the dreamy effects if you don't want to have slowness with the Clarity setting.If you like Japanese film-look recipes, you can also check out the Fujifilm Superia X-TRA 400 or Natura Classic. Happy shooting with Fujicolor Pro 400H, hope you like this new film recipe.

Fujicolor Pro 400H Custom Settings

Film Simulation Classic Negative Highlight -1 Shadow +2 Color +3 Sharpness -1 Noise Reduction -4 Grain Effect / Grain Size Strong/Small Color Chrome Effect / FX Blue Strong / Strong White Balance 3500K, Red 0 & Blue -5 Exposure Compensation Up to +1 ISO Auto up to ISO 6400 Clarity -2 Dynamic Range Auto

Sample Photos

Shot with Fujifilm X-T4, Fujinon XF35mm F2 R WR

Shot with Fujifilm X-T4, Fujinon XF35mm F2 R WR

Shot with Fujifilm X-T4, Fujinon XF35mm F2 R WR

Shot with Fujifilm X-T4, Fujinon XF35mm F2 R WR

Shot with Fujifilm X-T4, Fujinon XF35mm F2 R WR

Looking for more Fujifilm SOOC Recipes?

Select a Fujifilm recipe Boudoir Chrome Carbon Obscura Classy Glow Cine 2046 Cine Matte Cira 800 Film Dark Diary Dark Matter Downtown Bloom Fujicolor Pro 400H Film Fujicolor Superia X-Tra 400 Film Fujicolor C200 Expired Film Hue Obscure Kodachrome 64 Kodak Portra 400 Film LomoChrome Metropolis Film Natura Classic Noir Bloom Nomadic Mood Nordic Bliss One for the Road Summer Wanderer Tokyo Dream True Chroma Urban Dream Vision Obscura Share This:

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[the-pigeon]

a “gentle” god for an “angry” child

(/rp)

///

@/mr-scandalous // @/spidertrick // church prime wiki page // bombay sapphire by holly warbuton // gentle on my mind by drhair76 // quote by friedrich nietzsche // tommy, dream smp // a sadness runs through him by the hoosiers // veggietales // created by lisa d scott // @/mr-scandalous // i dont want to pray by edward sharpe and the magnetic zeroes // new york times by holly warbuton // excerpt from my diary 02/02/2020 // logstedshire wiki page // quote from oogway, kung fu panda // take me to church by hozier // gentle on my mind by drhair76

[rumblelibrary]

The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and a minor depiction of a fight. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: I am a nerd for a good Victorian novel and a sexy Alienist.I have always been charmed by Laszlo’s mind and inner conflicts. So I took the chance and tried to have a run into that rollercoaster.  The story is placed between season 1 and season 2.

Diary belonging to Dr. Laszlo Kreizler.  This is a professional book of annotations over medical treatments of an alienist toward his patients. Do not disclose and send it back to the address if found: Kreizler’s Institute, xxxxxx, New York City (NY) L.K.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Illustrated Natural History of the Animal Kingdom (c1859). Contributed for digitization by University Library, University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign.

Schiller in his “Die Weltweisen” wrote: So long as philosophy keeps together the structure of the Universe so long does it maintain the world’s machinery by hunger and love. From the philosopher point of view sexual life takes a subordinate position in human’s life, from recent studies pushed by European philosophers, everything is about sexuality and its development. I like to think of the experience of being an alienist as the process of Queen Penelope that, while waiting for her husband Ulysses return, undoes her craftwork every night. I undo the fabulous constructs of people’s beliefs to go back to the rough sketch that stands at the beginning of their loss, their complex, their pain. Maybe that’s why working with children is so motivating and fascinating. They can be saved and yet, I am well aware, some of those sketches already traced in their young lives equal to scars that not even the most advanced theories could cure. But I can sooth them. I can prevent them the torment, the anguish, the recollection at night of those monsters. I feel like a poet would be a better alienist than a philosopher, but I have got no poetry nor philosophy in my veins, but the cold experience of the razor blade judgment of Life itself.

Today I observed a fight among the children at the Institute. Age range between 10 and 12. Boys. The fight was over the possession of a side of the playground, the territory of a pack  of youngsters formed under the name of Steven. Peculiar lad, coming from a military background finds comfort in replicating the schemes he lived in his family. He takes the role of the Father/Captain of the team and subjects children that come from a similar background story, but do not posses his same attitude to the command. All quiet on the front, until the space he declared is own spot got affected by the presence of others.  Intruders. I knowingly let the events unfold to see how Steven would react to his challenged authority. His reaction was, at first, worded, a sketch, a stage-play of an action he witnessed over and over, and he knew the part so well that some of the contending kids lowered their stance against him. Among considering to mildly intervene into this pyramid scheme of authority, another boy, Jan, calls himself on the role of the educator and hero of the masses and proceeds to unfold a wild and well assessed punch on the newly declared dictator face. Balance is established again. No need for me to arbitrate, once more the laws of nature seem to apply to children as in a state of nature.

Meet John Moore over lunch. His job at the newspaper is picking up, he is charmed by the spirits and the wits that he finds in his shared office with all the other writers. He mentions many, goes on and on over qualities and troubles, gossips and tendencies, and even little scandals here and there. To be aware of all those details gives me no interest, but to see a dear friend so invested clearly gives me something to pick up. To consider also the amount of details and the way he describes this or that member of the journal, I can do a small exercise of analysis. It is almost too easy because John is painfully genuine, even some of the kids at the institute would beat him hands down in a battle of lies. The more he likes somebody, the more he goes on about all the details and the characteristics, often letting aside the physical appearance. When he doesn’t like somebody he has a couple of adjectives for the wits and around four or five for the physical aspects that usually indulge on some repulsive idiosyncrasies.  John is a man that painfully fits in the storyline of The Picture of Dorian Gray: to him physical beauty is spiritual beauty and, of course, the other way around. This part of him surely intrigues me, makes me want to tease more from him. But, as a friend, it concerns me as John is way too prone to purposelessly decide that somebody with good eyes is also a good human being, which is a very romantic and admirably naive way of judging matters. I noticed some names that keep repeating in his narration. I dread that it is synonymous of a soon encounter from my side with the objects of his admiration. Fetiches, I dare to say, that I will have to annihilate before they sediment into his mind, perpetuating a narration that soon sees John being mislead by others.

Reserved: Tickets for the Eroica, Symphony n. 3 by Ludwig van Beethoven. Thursday evening.

Note on the show: the first movement lacked the pathos needed to begin with, I am not sure that the guest orchestra really managed to portray the wider emotional ground needed to withstand the whole representation. As the evening progressed there were some outstanding performances by the cellists. Still not approving the choice of reprising the early quick finale movement against the lengthy set of variations and fugue that we are used to in presence of the Eroica. Underwhelming the performance of the horn and oboe, vital in the comprehension of the genius of Beethoven. 

Niki is a new addition of the Institute, quite old for the standards. He is already 16, he will leave when summer ends to some expensive college his family meant him to stay. His parents expect me to make him “normal” in the time we are allowed together.  He is Austrian and I let him act it out like I don’t understand German for the first week of hist stay until today. I believe I hit his pride, which is good, in the moment I answered back to one of his sneaky comments. Now he knows. He is not safe from me, he doesn’t like it. The young man has a tendency to danger, risky tasks and edgy situations. In his mother’s own words “Niki is not afraid of anything”. The phrase didn’t raise any excitement in the father, rather some sort of painful acceptance that is role as the alpha male of the house is probably not only being challenged, but  already diminished, if not abolished. I have taken in consideration that Niki will break himself a bone or two in the process of the therapy, probably out of the spite of boredom or rebellion. It took him less than few days to turn himself into an outcast among the outcasts, which only drives me closer to analyse the complexity of his narcissistic wall of self defence. I gave him a physical challenge to lift a certain weight, he is a pretty skinny one, he didn’t like the challenge, but I am sure he will take it. He is a brainy guy, he hates to be questioned on unfamiliar ground. He won’t sleep at night thinking about it.  A challenge, in this first phase, can only bring me closer to the ease of his pains. To continue the observation.

It is a sad privilege of medicine, in particular the one I practice, to be able to witness the weaknesses of the human nature and the reverse side of life. Nevertheless, I oblige this same privilege of the study as life moves into shades of darkness. To be aware of it gives more solace to my soul than to be victim of patiently waiting for the inevitable unfolding of the events. To be able to understand more about psychology would bring more comfort and elevation to any human being, the times might not be there yet, but eventually something will move into the direction of a more wholesome approach.

Dinner meeting with Sara Howard, at the restaurant Jardin Des Cygnes, 7 pm sharp.  Do not expect to reach the dessert. Do not know if John will be participating due to undeniable tension among the two and the fatal despise of John over French cuisine.

The case that Sara unfolded tonight to my ears feels more and more like pulled out from some gothic book or from the mind of a Roman historian that needed to justify the godly origins of an Emperor. One killing, apparently random, a very constructed iconography over the body. Signs and insults, shapes and drawings. Is this a work of art? Does the killer wants his victim to be his Mona Lisa? His David? I am charmed and destabilised. If this was a murder like any other, then why to spend so much time into it? Based on the description the act of killing itself was quick: a sharp cut over the throat, almost like not wanting to ruin too much the surface to use as base for, what? I keep rerunning those symbols over and over as Sara described them to me, my mind is flooded with the designs of greek philosophers that needed to explain themselves why the sky is above our head and never collapses on us. Hilarious how, no matter the science advancement, in the mind of many the sky stands inevitably overt their shoulders, suffocates them, brings them to a death of the soul and not of the body. Is all this graphic charade indeed only a form to scream for attention?  To stress the eyes of an unaware viewer? It seems ridiculously elaborate, a scream for attention would be quick, it would be like guided by instinct, not reasoning, craftwork. Any man with a knife can paint in blood red the walls of a room and that’s asking for attention. That is the primal howl: look at me! I am here! But this one.  I don’t know yet.

Spent the early morning reading anew my copy of The Metamorphosis by Ovid. Didn’t touch it in a long time and I got bedazzled by the world of terrible sensuality, anger and selfishness of those gods and mortals. I think back at all the deviances and weaknesses of human kind and I try to relate it to all of those humanoid figures. Niki would be a minotaur, the lonesome son left in the labyrinth and his strive for success is his bull’s head. Or maybe a centaur, because of his wits and strategic thinking. I might keep up the process, maybe this is the way to understand my patients better, to understand the killer better. Must remember not to romanticise it. Greek gods were probably the first form of self indulging of a society that needed gods to be forgiving and allowing favours and punishments, but only in exchange of sacrifices. But the sacrifice never comes from the God’s will, but from the will of the man that perpetuates the act of killing. To sacrifice someone or something is the sadistic response to a lack of love deeply inherited in human mind that becomes neurotic. Is the killer giving the God of his own neurosis a body to feast upon? 

I talked with Jan this morning. The young boy is about 10, but he acts like a full grown adult. I could easily asses that’s the reason why he could challenge Steven in that fight. Two children mimicking adults situations they know too well. Jan is son of an industrial man, but he is also son of the dialectics of the industrial revolution. He sounds like he swallowed some of those books about working class rights and communism, probably pushed by a resentful surrounding (mother?uncle? the midwife?) over the social role of his father. As much as incredibly smart and lectured, Jan lost most of his early occasions in life by spending a considerable amount of time using his fists. The anger ever present in the young boy always surprises me, he seems to be holding a power, a strength of a full grown man in those tiny arms. Nevertheless, he is already the tallest of the group. He is surely an idealist, which makes him also tragically fragile. His strength mixed with his heart of gold can make him the best of the heroes or the worst of the villains. He apologised for the fight, he specified how he didn’t like the sound of Steven’s voice, more than the sound, the level of pitch.  I can’t stand somebody shouting orders, I just don’t listen anymore. He is so mature even about his own feelings, almost a gentleman in his chivalry toward the weaker children, honest with his open heart and resentful against any form of injustice.  I am not spared by his ways, he would come at me whenever he feels like I was being partial over some of the kids, his sense of justice blinds him and transform a perfectly balanced boy into a ranging animal.

Ordered book, to be delivered around tomorrow evening: Introduction à la méthode de Léonard de Vinci by Paul Valéry. Suddenly feeling myself as a gross ignorant in art themes. I always regarded myself aware of the artistic personalities and tendencies of present and past, but this new amount of perceptions over the human figure and the human body leads me to document myself more. I could ask John for advice, but he wouldn’t take things at matter that seriously. I can almost hear him say how I can make gruesome a pleasant topic such as art. I should probably wait to see the body to push any further aesthetic study, but I find myself not being able to stop. I reckon, I can allow myself a vice or two.

Today I saw the body of the killed man, courtesy of the Isaacson's. To be fair, I had underestimated it. In Sara’s descriptions, probably due to her more analytic mind, all the charm of the representation got lost in favour of a less cryptic and reasonable understanding of the act. Sara got what some alienists will call a masculine mind, which I don’t perfectly agree on. If I apply that same approach John would be a very feminine mind, all wrapped up in romanticising even the ugliest. I guess that dividing the world in “fragile and gentle” and “strong and powerful” is just easier to explain the fluctuation of something that doesn’t need a real name or a category like human inclinations on thoughts.  I got a feverish sense of patience by looking at the body. Each symbol traced with sapient slowness, dense of the time that the killer spent with the body. That is a work of hours, he had time and meaning. He had resources and was able to spend not less than the time he needed to reach, a vision? An ideal? A message? Is it the message meant to be understood? Am I supposed to unravel it or it is maybe just the way the killer communicates within himself? And if I do decifrate the code, will that bring me closer to him? Or to his next victim?

Reminder: ask John to replicate all the symbols on the bodies in the correct measure and order. It might be needed some hard convincing. Addition: scheduled meeting, his house, 3 pm.

It wasn’t a day like any other when I met you. Or maybe it was, and that’s why I got so struck by it and now I am here playing it over and over through what my memory clung on so desperately. In my own experience, life was often similar to swimming in a lake. Those rich, dense lakes in the north of (illegible cancelled word) were my father used to bring us during summer. I still feel the pull, the draw down toward the abyss. It ashamed me, in a way, the fear that such a simple feeling aroused in my young mind, unaware nevertheless, that such a feeling would follow me through all my existence. It was a prophecy and, like most of the prophecies, was a riddle. I cradle in my heart the charm of those days, the mindless happiness. The foolish feeling of freedom. Little I knew that freedom would be taken away from me that soon, that the body that used to navigate me over the dense waters, helping me to fight the haul toward the unknown, would become my own cage. That day. Today. The day where I met you, the day I was afloat.  The child gasping for air felt the wrench become a gentle push and now he is floating on his back over the scary waters of reality and malice. It gave me relief and it gave me terror, because since that very moment I knew that I would never be able to move on from the sight of you. From the feeling of your eyes lingering on me. From the smile you so easily shone upon me. From the whiff of imported perfume that hit me when you turned on side exploding that swan like neck. And nothing, not even my stern look, could dim that wave of hope that your sole presence washed over me. The abyss roars, calls me to a home of damnation and terror and curses my name and yet you repeated that hell-bound name of mine after me and I felt safe.

John told me so much about you, it feels like I have always known you.

The rope is gone from my neck, the guillotine won’t fall on me, I am spared, I am free.

I have read your latest article, I am thrilled to help with the case.

I am in disbelief.

Your voice.

Dr. Kreizler

How dare you? How dare you to come into my life, to appear, like a vision, mystical, in a way I despised at University when all those theology students talked about the divine. In this very moment I can’t recollect much of what you said, something about the case, about going with John at the obituary. It feels confusing, I feel overstimulated, my memory fails me, I am not sure anymore. I write these few lines and it is passed the hour of the witches and I wish, I demand, to never see you again, because life should never grant hope to a condemned man. 

[thestarkerisobvious]

Kidnapped

tw: kidnapping, off screen violence, mentions of self-harm

spoiler alert: Angst With A Happy Ending

Chapter 1: The Mona Lisa

Peter looked out through the heavy white curtains, over the walls of the courtyard to the street below. He had a very good view of the world from this window, and as long as he sat still, no one would see him.  He didn’t want anyone to see him.  If someone saw, he would be punished.

The thought of Tony punishing him gave him a shiver in the warm room.  He

 didn’t want Tony’s punishments.  Tony’s punishments could be cruel.  

But there wasn’t much to see of the world, good view or not, so Peter went back to pacing.

He had three rooms to pace through – four if you included the luxurious bathroom Tony had made for him. There was nothing else to do but pace. He thought about doing more pushups or chin-ups on the bar Tony had installed for him, but he had done all his reps for the day.  It felt petty, pacing back and forth passed the large piles of video games stacked up next to the huge monitor or the massive stacks of books opposite them, but Peter didn’t feel like addressing either pile (although he might dust them again. His rooms were all immaculate.  No mess here.)  He groaned in frustration. It was the only sound in the silent room. He gave his gaming chair a petulant kick.  He wanted his computer back.

He didn’t know why Tony had taken his computer.  He hadn’t broken any rules or earned any punishment.  Tony told him it wasn’t a punishment… but it certainly felt like one.   He had been right in the middle of a project and he was dying to get back to it.  He knew he should be grateful that Tony had piled his rooms full of the newest video games and every book he had ever asked for, but that’s not what he wanted.  

Maybe he should take Tony’s advice and write it all down – he glanced over the lovely antique writing desk that Tony had bought him, filled with expensive kinds of notebooks and journals sitting next to expensive pens.  That seemed ridiculous to Peter, the idea of expensive pens, but it seemed to mean something to Tony, so he tried to be appreciative.

But dammit, he didn’t write things down like that.  Well, not those kinds of things.  Not his grandiose plans, not his clever internet schemes.  Those weren’t things you wrote, those were things you did.  He had tried, for Tony’s sake, to do more writing, but usually it came to nothing.  He didn’t even bother sitting down at the desk now.  He went back to pacing.  

But pacing was boring too. Maybe he would go back to sitting at his view-of-the-world window.  It was deliberately kept dirty on the outside, so that no one looking at the grand house (if anyone would) would see Peter’s face through the grime, and the bars on the windows, and the curtains.  Problem was, the street in this mansion-filled-neighborhood just wasn’t very interesting at all.  Once again, Peter longed for his computer.  Of all the luxurious things Tony had stocked his hidden rooms with, that was the one thing he couldn’t live without.  He didn’t know why it was gone, and he didn’t know for how long.  He sighed, then growled in frustration.  At least Tony would be back soon.    Tony would bring information – explain why he wasn’t being punished even though it felt like he was being punished.

As he walked passed his exercise bar and leapt up to grab it, doing a few more chin-ups before resuming his pacing.  He glared at it as he walked away.  It was good for exercise, but it wasn’t good enough.  It was just too boring.  He couldn’t say why.  When he was living in Quentin Beck’s mansion he had exercise equipment and a swimming pool and a private basketball court.    It had been ages since he had played basketball.  He wondered if he’d still be any good at it.

He paced by the large mirror that stood behind the huge dresser.  He stopped for a moment and regarded himself.  He was wearing an old t-shirt and saggy sweats, like he always was. He never saw the point in getting dressed when he wasn’t allowed outside these 3 rooms (four rooms.  3 rooms and a bathroom.  The bathroom counted as a room.  It was huge – as big, if not bigger, than his childhood bedroom. He wanted to remember that.)

Seized by sudden inspiration, Peter peeled off the shirt.

Turning to put his back to the mirror, he turned around and tried to see himself from behind.  It didn’t work too well, so he backed up until he was practically sitting on the dresser.  Then he could see.

Then he could see the bruises.

Mostly bite-marks, although those were fading.  Thought they were bright and angry red just a few days ago.  There were finger-bruises around his waist, too.  Those made his breath catch… made his eyes well up with tears. There were three straight lines still visible across his back, but he was expecting those.  Problem was, the worst of the bruises were very difficult to see from this position.  He needed a second mirror – one he could look into so he could see the mirror behind him. That was the only way to see the ones right on the back of his neck.

For a moment, he turned around and looked at his own face.

There were no bruises there, and there never would be.  Tony said Peter’s face was like a work of art… like the Mona Lisa.  Too precious, to beautiful to bruise.  

Peter smiled ruefully. He was the Mona Lisa, if you thought about it.  Beautiful, like a picture.  Beautiful, and locked away.  Locked up tight and safe where no one, no matter how clever or how powerful, could steal him.  But unlike the Mona Lisa, he had been hidden away as well.  Hidden away so carefully that no one, not even the man who loved him the most, had the slightest clue where he was.

His rueful smile didn’t look good on his face, so he struggled to hide it.  His pretty face.  The only argument he had ever had with his kidnapper – the only time he had ever spoken up or raised his voice to Tony Stark – was when they argued about his face.  But Peter didn’t argue too long.  If he argued too long then he might get into trouble.  If he got into trouble, he might get punished.  Tony might take away his computer, and he didn’t want that…

(Of course he had been good, he had been very good, and lost his computer anyway...)

Peter leaned in and looked at his face closely in the mirror.  It wasn’t a very good mirror, that was for certain.  It wasn’t very good because it wasn’t really standing on the huge dresser (half of which was full of Balmain jeans and Dolce trousers and socks that cost more than his first bicycle.)  The mirror wasn’t in the room at all.  It was inside the wall, on the other side of a glass pane.  The glass was unbreakable.  Peter knew.  He had tried. At least, it wasn’t breakable by any object Peter could find in his three (four) rooms.  

Peter frowned as he looked at his chin.  Tomorrow, or maybe the next day, Tony would have to shave him again.  Peter wasn’t allowed to have razors, for the same reason he wasn’t allowed to have things that could be broken and turned into sharp objects.  He had no one to blame for that except himself – at least he hadn’t been punished for that little slipup, not really.  His only punishment was the removal of the sharp things and the installation of the mirror.  

He looked closely at his face, still frowning.  He hoped Tony would have time to shave him, otherwise… Peter shuddered.  As much as he hated looking at his “beautiful” face, he hated that pale show of stubble even more.

Sighing, Peter put his shirt back on.  As he did, he noted the faintest hint of bruises on his wrists.  Faint, and fading fast.  Barely visible.  In a day, maybe two, and they’d be gone completely.  

Not that it mattered. Tony would be back, and soon.  

Tony would put the bruises back.  All of them.

Sighing, then groaning, in frustration, Peter started pacing again.  The silence of the rooms was really getting to him.  He went to the window, and then back through the three rooms to the writing desk.  Sometimes including the bathroom in the circuit.  Then back to the window again.  He would drive himself crazy if he kept pacing – but sitting behind the curtain looking down at the boring world would just be worse.  He began to wonder if he should try to take a long luxurious bubble-bath in the huge bathtub… Tony certainly seemed to think that was a thing that people liked… maybe he could even do that and read a book at the same time.  That was a thing that people did.  But by that logic he could just take a nap.  Or maybe…

Walking back to the writing desk, Peter sat in the chair and reached for a pen.  He had considered keeping a diary (or a journal – girls kept diaries, boy’s kept journals) about the life he was living here.  Behind all the locked doors.  In the hidden rooms on the third floor of Tony’s secret house. It wouldn’t exactly be a private account – Tony would read it for certain – but it might pass the time at least. Give him something to do.  Give him a place to complain, without complaining, about how unfair it was for Tony to take away his computer when he hadn’t even broken any rules.

He was actually reaching for one of the unused leather journals when he heard something that made his heart skip a beat.

He could sound of the key in the lock, even from where he sat.  It was because of the dead silence in the room – he could never abide to have music playing when he was alone, no matter how nice a stereo system Tony had bought him, no matter how much music he had provided.  Maybe that’s why he couldn’t abide to take a bath or play a video game while he was alone.  He needed the silence.

He needed the silence so he would know when someone was coming.

And someone was coming.

Tony was home early.

----------------------

chapter 2 coming tomorrow

ask to be tagged

warning: Not Really A Dead Dove (I try to do dark and always fail)

[ouuggsreadings]

VI CAPITA MAI DI GUARDARE LA VOSTRA LIBRERIA E ACCORGERVI TRISTEMENTE DI QUANTE POCHE DONNE CI SIANO? IO Sì, QUINDI ECCOVI UN ELENCO NON RICHIESTO DELLE AUTRICI PRESENTI AL MOMENTO NELLA MIA LIBRERIA (e alcune da quella di mio padre):

Simonetta Agnello Hornby, Il veleno dell’oleandro Susanna Kaysen, La ragazza interrotta Mary Shelley, Frankestein Emily Brontë, Cime Tempestose  Louisa May Alcott, Piccole Donne (da leggere) Lisa Hallidey, Asimmetria Karen Blixen, La mia Africa (da leggere); I vendicatori angelici (da leggere); Racconti d’inverno, Capricci del destino Donna Tartt, The Secret History (da leggere); The Goldfinch Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl; Sharp Objects;  Khao Nashiki, Un’estate con la Strega dell’Ovest Marguerite Yourcenar, L’opera al nero (da leggere), Mishima o la visione del vuoto (da leggere); Alexis; Pellegrina e straniera; Virginia Woolf, Gita al faro (da leggere); Le onde; Orlando Zeruya Shalev, Quel che resta della vita (da leggere) Harper Lee, Il buio oltre la siepe Isabel Allende, La casa degli spiriti; Eva Luna; Eva Luna racconta; La città delle bestie; La foresta dei pigmei; Il regno del drago d’oro; Paula (da leggere); Inés dell'anima mia (da leggere) Banana Yoshimoto, Kitchen; N.P.; Le sorelle Donguri; Ricordi di un vicolo cieco; High&Dry; Honeymoon; A proposito di lei; Sonno Profondo; L’abito di piume; Il corpo sa tutto; Lucertola; Presagio triste; Moshi Moshi; Il lago; Tugumi; Another world; Il giardino segreto; Il dolore, le ombre, la magia; Andromeda Heights Margaret Atwood, The handmaid’s tale Elsa Morante, Lo scialle andaluso (da leggere) Oriana Fallaci, Un uomo (da leggere) Muriel Barbery, L’eleganza del riccio Kristen Roupenian, Cat person Jen Beagin, Facciamo che ero morta Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Donne che corrono con i lupi (da leggere) Chris Kraus, I love Dick; Aliens & Anorexia; Topor Jane Austen, Emma (da leggere); Orgoglio e Pregiudizio Marina Cvetaeva, Scusate l’amore Jane Blocker, Where is Ana Mendieta? (sto leggendo) Majgull Axelesson, La tua vita e la mia Halldóra Thoroddsen, Doppio vetro Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre Jean Rhys, Il grande mare dei Sargassi Maria Antonietta, Sette ragazze imperdonabili Sylvia Plath, Diari (da leggere); La campana di vetro; Tutte le poesie Grazia Deledda, Canne al vento (da leggere) Sally Rooney, Normal People; Conversations with friends Irène Némirovsky, I cani e i lupi; La preda Anaïs Nin, Diari 1931-1966 (da leggere) Muriel Spark, Memento Mori Ruth Benedict, Il crisantemo e la spada (da leggere) Natalia Ginzburg, Lessico Famigliare Margaret Mazzantini, Nessuno si salva da solo Suzanne Collins, Hunger Games (la trilogia) Licia Troisi, Le guerre del Mondo Emerso; Le cronache del Mondo Emerso Mary Oliver, Felicity; Devotions; House of Light; Red Bird Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, We should all be feminists Djuna Barnes, La foresta della notte (sto leggendo); La passione (da leggere) Colette, Il grano in erba (da leggere); La gatta (da leggere)

Datemi qualche nuovo consiglio amici!

[nagia-pronounced-neijia]

It is undisputed truth among providers of sports medicine that the field has its origin in the writings of Adrian Tepeş, sometimes credited as Adrian Belmont.  Even his early work -- the exemplary, "Diary of a course of treatment of a female Belmont hunter, Winter 1474-Summer 1475," and even the less-beloved "Observations on a male Belmont hunter's recovery throughout Anno Dominum 1477" -- shows a focus specifically on medicine related to sports or field activity, rather than the combat first aid that his contemporaries and collaborators, Renata Belmont Băleanu and Luminița Belmont Codrii, pioneered.  His observations are meticulous and exacting, yet deeply personal, in sharp contrast to his mother and predecessor, Lisa Tepeş, whose work began and remained clinically detached. It cannot be questioned that Adrian Tepes knew and cared about his athletes as much as modern sports physicians do today.

What can be questioned: just how much more?  In this essay I will examine multiple primary and secondary sources including clinical writings, extant personal correspondance, and the (in)famous interview in Paris from 1834.  As Adrian Tepeş is currently resting on the Belmont estates, I will not be able to interview him, but perhaps someday he will read and respond to the body of work relating to his close relationship with the Belmont family of Romania and their patronage of his sports medicine clinic in Călimănești.

-- term paper of a history major in Bucharest, saved as "histmed overview fall 2019 adrian tepes fucked trevor belmont final final FINAL.doc"

[antihero-writings]

Such Fragile Things

Fandom: Castlevania (I wrote it for the Netflix series, but it works for SOTN too!)

Summary: Dracula thought love was soft, and breakable...but what he feels holding his newborn son is anything but. || Some Dracula and and Adrian feels.

Character focus: Dracula

Notes: I also posted this on my Castlevania blog @symphonyofthewrite if you want to check it out there!! (Decided to repost it instead of reblogging it because I wanted to use different notes here XD)

Chapter 1: His Son's Life

Dracula did not read romance novels. He wasn’t really one for novels in general, especially written by humans. Science. Philosophy. Medicine. Not flights of fantasy.

But the humans have a word for this…and it isn’t quite scientific.

That word is ‘love.’

…But that can’t possibly cover it.

But ‘love’ was always a silly little notion. Love was flowers and candy. Love was sappy letters and maudlin advances. ‘Love’ was sensitive and easy to break. ‘Love’ was soft.

But this… this is anything but soft.

This is a thing that does the breaking. It is painful, and sharp in the way it pierces him so thoroughly. It is tethered so tightly around his heart, that if he tried to sever its bonds his heart would burn, and quite possibly break.

This is daggers and I’d die for you. This is a stake stabbed through the chest.

And that is not what he knows of love.

The the baby boy murmurs quiet nonsense beside his sleeping mother.

Vlad stands over the cradle—(a cradle his parents made out of metal, and cotton, and dedication)—the fabric soft against his fingers.

His mother. A human. Completely, and thoroughly. No turning necessary. He could have turned her…but that would have sullied the pink of her cheeks, the red of her lips, the blue of her eyes.

So many humans are out for blood without thirst involved. He needn’t corrupt one that didn’t experience such desires.

Just an ordinary human, who was either brave or very stupid… or maybe a bit of both to walk straight into the demon’s castle. Maybe she was just curious. …He hoped it wouldn’t kill her one day, like the cat who meant well.

His mother. Lisa. With golden hair, and certain shimmer to her words too.

His father. Dracula. A vampire. The vampire. The king of night and all its hordes. A scary story, full of blood and death and the moon was full that night.

—(Could he even be a father after all that killing? Was there a father behind all that bloodshed? Dare he even try to keep something alive, when these hands were constructed to kill?)—

And Adrian. Just born, already with one foot in each world. Half human. Half vampire. The stars dripped from the ceiling, and the sun spilled in through the window.

Would they hurt him for it?

Would this fact grant him safe passage into both worlds, or make him hated by both? Had he cursed this being to a life of not belonging? Or had he given him an opportunity no one else had; to belong to both?

Would being Dracula’s son make him a villain? Or would it make him a prince? Would the humans fear and hate him? Would the vampires bow to him?

Would being Lisa’s son make him a hero? Would the humans accept him as one of them? Would the vampires exile him as a half-breed, impure, no matter if his father had a castle, and a crown, and fangs all too ready to sink into their necks?

Barely noticeable now, he has golden hair like his mother, and fangs like his father.

…He wonders how this creature, so full of light, could come from the king of night.

Then Adrian starts crying.

The king of night is uh…not equipped for this. He’s never comforted a crying child before. He’s made more than a few cry in his time, but he’s never been on the other end…it seems the much more difficult side of things.

He has half—(okay, more than half)—a mind to wake Lisa for help. …But Lisa has done enough for today. Surely he can handle one crying baby.

Vlad is careful not to let his nails pierce the child’s skin as he scoops him up, cradling him in his arms.

Adrian is so small. It doesn’t feel like he’s made of thumping, pumping blood and bone. He feels as if he’s made of glass, and Dracula fears he’ll shatter in his hands.

Dracula has killed so many things in his life. He has killed humans, and animals and, yes, another vampire or two. But he doesn’t want to kill this one. He is so desperate to keep him alive he thinks he might die himself before he saw anything touch him.

Lisa stirs, and Vlad moves the child further away so as not to wake her. He sits in the chair in the corner of the room, by the basket full of toys he will soon play with, and the alphabet charts he will soon learn with.

Dracula did not read romance novels. But he had once heard a lullaby, and he wonders if he can remember the lyrics.

At the gentle song, slowly Adrian calms down in his father’s arms, and looks up at him with those golden eyes.

And Dracula wonders if the world was always this big.

Vampire’s eyes are usually so cold and dark. But he is only half dark, and his eyes are full of sunlight.

He looks up at his father, this dark thing, the killer, the monster king. The creature they said could never learn to love.

And Adrian smiles.

When Dracula returns that smile, it is not an evil sneer tugging at his lips. It is like his face breaks, pouring out all the joy inside him. He leans forward and rests his forehead gently upon Adrian’s.

“My boy.”

******

Notes: 

First of all, stay tuned, because I'm probably going to post another chapter of this!! (Fair warning, though, it's gonna be pretty different from this one tonally...though very much related, and feels-inducing!!)

Don't know if anyone will believe me, but this is actually the first Castlevania fic I ever wrote!! This was actually the precursor to “If These Walls Could Talk”!!

 I was playing with how to start the scene, and I started describing that "Castlevania was not a good place to raise a child" thing that starts off “If These Walls Could Talk”. Then the way I was describing it started sounding like I was personifying the Castle, and then I was like WAIT THAT'S A BETTER IDEA XD So I kinda got more interested in that idea, haha! (By the way, if any of the lines from this fic are also in If These Walls Can Talk too, now you know why XD I didn't intend for there to be any repeats though.) 

Then a little while later I got a really nice prompt asking me to write a diary-style fic about Drac and Lisa recounting Adrian's birth, and I was thinking this ^^ fic and its images would work really well for it, so I didn't post it after that because I thought I'd reconfigure it for the diary thing.

I loved the prompt, but diary-style implies first person...and first person is really tough for fanfiction, and even more so a character like Dracula. It's weird, I love going into characters internal monologue, and I love first person (at least I do as far as my original writing goes), but in fanfiction when I try to write first person it feels almost like "I don't have a right to say I know directly what they're thinking"??...but it's weird, cuz I pretty much already do that... Sorry, I'm rambling! I really hope I can still write that diary fic at some point, but at the moment I'm still struggling, haha.

I've been wanting to get better at editing faster, and posting more often. Lately I've been going through my old/unfinished fics and trying to polish them up and post them, even if they're not perfect in my eyes. So I decided to go back to this one and finish it up anyways! If I do the diary one I guess I'll just have to use other images!

[thebestbookrecommendations]

Gone Girl - Gillian Flynn

On a warm summer morning in North Carthage, Missouri, it is Nick and Amy Dunne’s fifth wedding anniversary. Presents are being wrapped and reservations are being made when Nick’s clever and beautiful wife disappears from their rented McMansion on the Mississippi River. Husband-of-the-Year Nick isn’t doing himself any favors with cringe-worthy daydreams about the slope and shape of his wife’s head, but passages from Amy's diary reveal the alpha-girl perfectionist could have put anyone dangerously on edge. Under mounting pressure from the police and the media—as well as Amy’s fiercely doting parents—the town golden boy parades an endless series of lies, deceits, and inappropriate behavior. Nick is oddly evasive, and he’s definitely bitter—but is he really a killer?

Read if You Like:

Mystery

Thriller

Suspense

Crime

Contemporary Fiction

Domestic Thriller

Recommended if You Enjoy:

Paula Hawkins (The Girl on the Train)

Gillian Flynn (Dark Places, Sharp Objects)

A. J. Finn (The Woman in the Window)

Lisa Unger (Confessions on the 7:45)

Colleen Hoover (Verity)

Gone Girl (Movie Adaptation, 2014)

4/5

[ninja-muse]

Read in 2018 Masterpost

Italics = 7-8 out of 10; Bold = 9-10 out of 10; Struck = unreviewed

Fantasy

Beneath the Sugar Sky - Seanan McGuire Phantom Pains - Mishell Baker Malice of Crows - Lila Bowen The Furthest Station - Ben Aaronovitch Tricks for Free - Seanan McGuire All Those Explosions Were Someone Else’s Fault - James Alan Gardner Olympus Bound - Jordanna Max Brodsky The Silenced Tale - J.M. Frey Strange Practice - Vivian Shaw How The Marquis Got His Coat Back - Neil Gaiman Sparrow Hill Road - Seanan McGuire Trail of Lightning - Rebecca Roanhorse Spinning Silver - Naomi Novik Stray Souls - Kate Griffin Dreadful Company - Vivian Shaw Night and Silence - Seanan McGuire Between Two Thorns - Emma Newman

DNF Keeping it Real - Justina Robson DNF A Spoonful of Magic - Irene Radford DNF Kill the Farm Boy - Delilah S. Dawson and Kevin Hearne

Reread: The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents, Night Watch, Wee Free Men, Monstrous Regiment, Hat Full of Sky, Going Postal, Thud! (Terry Pratchett)

Finished a reread: Smoke and Ashes (Tanya Huff)

Science Fiction

Cibola Burn - James S.A. Corey Artemis - Andy Weir Barbary Station - R.E. Stearns Childhood’s End - Arthur C. Clarke Nemesis Games - James S.A. Corey Vengeful - V.E. Schwab

DNF The Amateurs - Liz Harmer DNF The Big Ship at the End of the Universe - Alex White

Alternate History

At the Table of Wolves - Kay Kenyon One of Us - Craig DiLouie Karen Memory - Elizabeth Bear

Graphic Novels

Saga, Vol. 8 - Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples Monstress, Vol. 1 - Marjorie Liu Moonstruck, Vol. 1 - Grace Ellis Rivers of London, Vol. 4 - Ben Aaronovitch Rivers of London, Vol. 5 - Ben Aaronovitch Ms. Marvel, Vol. 4 - G. Willow Wilson Crosswind, Vol. 1 - Gail Simone

Mystery

The Con Artist - Fred van Lent Death by Dumpling - Vivien Chien The Mangle Street Murders - M.R.C. Kasasian Dim Sum of All Fears - Vivien Chien

DNF Cremains of the Day - Misty Simon DNF Twelve Angry Librarians - Miranda James DNF The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala - Laura DiSilverio DNF Of Books and Bagpipes - Paige Shelton

Young Adult

Tash Hearts Tolstoy - Kathryn Ormsbee Let’s Talk About Love - Claire Kann Dreadnought - April Daniels Ship It - Britta Lundin The Brightsiders - Jen Wilde Puddin’ - Julie Murphy The Supervillian and Me - Danielle Banas Fat Girl on a Plane - Kelly DeVos Pulp - Robin Talley The Lady’s Guide to Petticoats and Piracy - Mackenzi Lee Geekerella - Ashley Poston I Was Born For This - Alice Oseman

DNF Kill the Boy Band - Goldy Moldavsky DNF Neanderthal Opens the Door to the Universe - Preston Norton

Middle Grade

La Belle Sauvage - Philip Pullman Aru Shah and the End of Time - Roshani Chokshi City of Ghosts - Victoria Schwab Better Nate Than Ever - Tim Federle The Chronicles of Faerie - O.R. Melling The Book of Dreams - O.R. Melling

Other Fiction

Three Men in a Boat - Jerome K. Jerome Mansfield Park - Jane Austen The Alice Network - Kate Quinn The Kiss Quotient - Helen Hoang Crazy Rich Asians - Kevin Kwan The Children’s Book - A.S. Byatt Trickster Drift - Eden Robinson Dear Mrs. Bird - AJ Pearce London - Edward Rutherfurd The Vicar of Wakefield - Oliver Goldsmith The Huntress - Kate Quinn

DNF Inferno - Dan Brown DNF The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle - Stuart Turton

Poetry

Killer Verse - Harold Schechter and Kurt Brown, ed Poems Dead and Undead - Tony Barnstone and Michelle Mitchell-Foust, ed.

Non-Fiction

Scrappy Little Nobody - Anna Kendrick The Diary of a Bookseller - Shaun Bythell Dead Wake - Erik Larson Bad Days in History - Michael Farquhar Musicophilia - Oliver Sacks NeuroTribes - Steve Silberman I’ll Be Gone in the Dark - Michelle McNamara A Story as Sharp as a Knife - Robert Bringhurst The Science of Discworld IV: Judgement Day - Terry Pratchett, Ian Stewart, and Jack Cohen The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs - Steve Brusatte Born to Be Posthumous - Mark Dery Reread: The Science of Discworld II (Terry Pratchett)

DNF Deliver Us From Evil - Ralph Sarchie and Lisa Collier Cool DNF Sons of Cain - Peter Vronsky

Other

Where’s My Cow? - Terry Pratchett

Stats

First Read: 77/76 Finished: 3 DNFs: 15 Rereads: 8

[all-my-books]

2017 Reading

262 books read. 60% of new reads Non-fiction, authors from 55 unique countries, 35% of authors read from countries other than USA, UK, Canada, and Australia. Asterisks denote re-reads, bolds are favorites. January: The Deeds of the Disturber – Elizabeth Peters The Wiregrass – Pam Webber Homegoing – Yaa Gyasi It Didn't Start With You – Mark Wolynn Facing the Lion – Joseph Lemasolai Lekuton Before We Visit the Goddess – Chitra Divakaruni Colored People – Henry Louis Gates Jr. My Khyber Marriage – Morag Murray Abdullah Miss Bianca in the Salt Mines – Margery Sharp Farewell to the East End – Jennifer Worth Fire and Air – Erik Vlaminck My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me – Jennifer Teege Catherine the Great – Robert K Massie My Mother's Sabbath Days – Chaim Grade Not the Israel My Parents Promised Me – Harvey Pekar, JT Waldman The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend – Katarina Bivald Stammered Songbook – Erwin Mortier Savushun – Simin Daneshvar The Prophet – Kahlil Gibran Beyond the Walls – Nazim Hikmet The Dressmaker of Khair Khana – Gayle Tzemach Lemmon A Day No Pigs Would Die – Robert Newton Peck *

February: Bone Black – bell hooks Special Exits – Joyce Farmer Reading Like a Writer – Francine Prose Bright Dead Things – Ada Limon Middlemarch – George Eliot Confessions of an English Opium Eater – Thomas de Quincey Medusa's Gaze – Marina Belozerskaya Child of the Prophecy – Juliet Marillier * The File on H – Ismail Kadare The Motorcycle Diaries – Ernesto Che Guevara Passing – Nella Larsen Whose Body? - Dorothy L. Sayers The Spiral Staircase – Karen Armstrong Station Eleven – Emily St. John Mandel Reading Lolita in Tehran – Azar Nafisi Defiance – Nechama Tec

March: Yes, Chef – Marcus Samuelsson Discontent and its Civilizations – Mohsin Hamid The Gulag Archipelago Vol. 1 – Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn Patience and Sarah – Isabel Miller Dying Light in Corduba – Lindsey Davis * Five Days at Memorial – Sheri Fink A Man Called Ove – Fredrik Backman * The Shia Revival – Vali Nasr Girt – David Hunt Half Magic – Edward Eager * Dreams of Joy – Lisa See * Too Pretty to Live – Dennis Brooks West with the Night – Beryl Markham Little Fuzzy – H. Beam Piper *

April: Defying Hitler – Sebastian Haffner Monsters in Appalachia – Sheryl Monks Sorcerer to the Crown – Zen Cho The Man Without a Face – Masha Gessen Peace is Every Step – Thich Nhat Hanh Flory – Flory van Beek Why Soccer Matters – Pele The Zhivago Affair – Peter Finn, Petra Couvee The Stories of Breece D'J Pancake – Breece Pancake The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared – Jonas Jonasson Chasing Utopia – Nikki Giovanni The Invisible Bridge – Julie Orringer * Young Adults – Daniel Pinkwater Jonathan Swift: The Reluctant Rebel – John Stubbs Black Gun, Silver Star – Art T. Burton The Arab of the Future 2 – Riad Sattouf Hole in the Heart – Henny Beaumont MASH – Richard Hooker Forgotten Ally – Rana Mitter Zorro – Isabel Allende Flying Couch – Amy Kurzweil

May: The Bite of the Mango – Mariatu Kamara Mystic and Rider – Sharon Shinn * Freedom is a Constant Struggle – Angela Davis Capture – David A. Kessler Poor Cow – Nell Dunn My Father's Dragon – Ruth Stiles Gannett * Elmer and the Dragon – Ruth Stiles Gannett * The Dragons of Blueland – Ruth Stiles Gannett * Hetty Feather – Jacqueline Wilson In the Shadow of the Banyan – Vaddey Ratner The Last Camel Died at Noon – Elizabeth Peters Cannibalism – Bill Schutt The Handmaid's Tale – Margaret Atwood A Fine Balance – Rohinton Mistry The Food of a Younger Land – Mark Kurlansky Behold the Dreamers – Imbolo Mbue Words on the Move – John McWhorter John Ransom's Diary: Andersonville – John Ransom Such a Lovely Little War – Marcelino Truong Child of All Nations – Irmgard Keun One Child – Mei Fong Country of Red Azaleas – Domnica Radulescu Between Two Worlds – Zainab Salbi Malinche – Julia Esquivel A Lucky Child – Thomas Buergenthal The Drackenberg Adventure – Lloyd Alexander Say You're One of Them – Uwem Akpan William Wells Brown – Ezra Greenspan

June: Partners In Crime – Agatha Christie The Chinese in America – Iris Chang The Great Escape – Kati Marton As Texas Goes... – Gail Collins Pavilion of Women – Pearl S. Buck Classic Chinese Stories – Lu Xun The Return of the Soldier – Rebecca West The Slave Across the Street – Theresa Flores Miss Bianca in the Orient – Margery Sharp Boy Erased – Garrard Conley How to Be a Dictator – Mikal Hem A Thousand Splendid Suns – Khaled Hosseini Tears of the Desert – Halima Bashir The Death and Life of Great American Cities – Jane Jacobs The First Salute – Barbara Tuchman Come as You Are – Emily Nagoski The Want-Ad Killer – Ann Rule The Gulag Archipelago Vol 2 – Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

July: Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz – L. Frank Baum * The Blazing World – Margaret Cavendish Madonna in a Fur Coat – Sabahattin Ali Duende – tracy k. smith The ACB With Honora Lee – Kate de Goldi Mountains of the Pharaohs – Zahi Hawass Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy Chronicle of a Last Summer – Yasmine el Rashidi Killers of the Flower Moon – David Grann Mister Monday – Garth Nix * Leaving Yuba City – Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni The Silk Roads – Peter Frankopan The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy – Douglas Adams A Corner of White – Jaclyn Moriarty * Circling the Sun – Paula McLain Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them – Al Franken Believe Me – Eddie Izzard The Cracks in the Kingdom – Jaclyn Moriarty * Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe – Fannie Flagg * One Hundred and One Days – Asne Seierstad Grim Tuesday – Garth Nix * The Vanishing Velasquez – Laura Cumming Four Against the Arctic – David Roberts The Marriage Bureau – Penrose Halson The Jesuit and the Skull – Amir D Aczel Drowned Wednesday – Garth Nix * Roots, Radicals, and Rockers – Billy Bragg A Tangle of Gold – Jaclyn Moriarty * Lydia, Queen of Palestine – Uri Orlev *

August: Sir Thursday – Garth Nix * The Hoboken Chicken Emergency – Daniel Pinkwater * Lady Friday – Garth Nix * Freddy and the Perilous Adventure – Walter R. Brooks * Venice – Jan Morris China's Long March – Jean Fritz Trials of the Earth – Mary Mann Hamilton The Bully Pulpit – Doris Kearns Goodwin Final Exit – Derek Humphry The Book of Emma Reyes – Emma Reyes Freddy the Politician – Walter R. Brooks * Dragonflight – Anne McCaffrey * What the Witch Left – Ruth Chew All Passion Spent – Vita Sackville-West The Picture of Dorian Gray – Oscar Wilde The Curse of the Blue Figurine – John Bellairs * When They Severed Earth From Sky – Elizabeth Wayland Barber Superior Saturday – Garth Nix * The Boston Girl – Anita Diamant The Mummy, The Will, and the Crypt – John Bellairs * Are We Smart Enough to Know How Smart Animals Are? - Frans de Waal The Philadelphia Adventure – Lloyd Alexander * Lord Sunday – Garth Nix * The Spell of the Sorcerer's Skull – John Bellairs * Five Little Pigs – Agatha Christie * Love in Vain – JM Dupont, Mezzo A Little History of the World – EH Gombrich Last Things – Marissa Moss Imagine Wanting Only This – Kristen Radtke Dinosaur Empire – Abby Howard The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents – Terry Pratchett *

September: First Bite by Bee Wilson The Xanadu Adventure by Lloyd Alexander Orientalism – Edward Said The Lost Crown of Genghis Khan – Carl Barks The Island on Bird Street – Uri Orlev * The Indifferent Stars Above – Daniel James Brown Beneath the Lion's Gaze – Maaza Mengiste The Importance of Being Earnest – Oscar Wilde * The Book of Five Rings – Miyamoto Musashi The Drunken Botanist – Amy Stewart The Turtle of Oman – Naomi Shahib Nye The Alleluia Files – Sharon Shinn * Gut Feelings – Gerd Gigerenzer The Secret of Hondorica – Carl Barks Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight – Alexandra Fuller The Abominable Mr. Seabrook – Joe Ollmann Black Flags – Joby Warrick

October: Fear – Thich Nhat Hanh Fall Down 7 Times Get Up 8 – Naoki Higashida To the Bright Edge of the World – Eowyn Ivey Why? - Mario Livio Just One Damned Thing After Another – Jodi Taylor The Yellow Wallpaper – Charlotte Perkins Gilman Blindness – Jose Saramago The Book Thieves – Anders Rydell Reality is not What it Seems – Carlo Rovelli Cranford – Elizabeth Gaskell * The Witch Family – Eleanor Estes * Sister Mine – Nalo Hopkinson La Vagabonde – Colette Becoming Nicole – Amy Ellis Nutt

November: The Golden Notebook – Doris Lessing The Children's Book – A.S. Byatt The Fire Next Time – James Baldwin Under the Udala Trees – Chinelo Okparanta Who Killed These Girls? – Beverly Lowry Running for my Life – Lopez Lmong Radium Girls – Kate Moore News of the World – Paulette Jiles The Red Pony – John Steinbeck The Edible History of Humanity – Tom Standage A Woman in Arabia – Gertrude Bell and Georgina Howell Founding Gardeners – Andrea Wulf Anatomy of a Disapperance – Hisham Matar The Book of Night Women – Marlon James Ground Zero – Kevin J. Anderson * Acorna – Anne McCaffrey and Margaret Ball * A Girl Named Zippy – Haven Kimmel * The Age of the Vikings – Anders Winroth The Spanish Civil War: A Very Short Introduction – Helen Graham A General History of the Pyrates – Captain Charles Johnson (suspected Nathaniel Mist) Clouds of Witness – Dorothy L. Sayers * The Lonely City – Olivia Laing No Time for Tears – Judy Heath

December: The Unwomanly Face of War – Svetlana Alexievich Gay-Neck - Dhan Gopal Mukerji The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane – Lisa See Get Well Soon – Jennifer Wright The Testament of Mary – Colm Toibin The Roman Way – Edith Hamilton Understood Betsy – Dorothy Canfield Fisher * The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Vicente Blasco Ibanez Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH – Robert C. O'Brien SPQR – Mary Beard Ballet Shoes – Noel Streatfeild * Hogfather – Terry Pratchett * The Sorrow of War – Bao Ninh Drowned Hopes – Donald E. Westlake * Selected Essays – Michel de Montaigne Vietnam – Stanley Karnow The Snake, The Crocodile, and the Dog – Elizabeth Peters Guests of the Sheik – Elizabetha Warnok Fernea Stone Butch Blues – Leslie Feinberg Wicked Plants – Amy Stewart Life in a Medieval City – Joseph and Frances Gies Under the Sea Wind – Rachel Carson The Red Virgin and the Vision of Utopia – Mary and Brian Talbot Brat Farrar – Josephine Tey * The Treasure of the Ten Avatars – Don Rosa Escape From Forbidden Valley – Don Rosa Nightwood – Djuna Barnes Here Comes the Sun – Nicole Dennis-Benn Over My Dead Body – Rex Stout *