#IS A PIECE OF LITERATURE

[yourmelancholickid]

I want all your laughs to be mine

[tossawary]

One of the things that I really enjoyed about the "Epic of Gilgamesh" is that Gilgamesh is a shitty person. Like, he's a king and two-thirds divine and all that, a warrior among warriors, his experiences could not be more different from the average person, and yet none of that saves him. I think the messages about grief and mortality hit as hard as they do because he's so selfish and privileged and awful at the beginning, before being irreversibly changed by friendship and love and loss and regret. He has all of this classical "greatness" and that does not spare him. He has been changed and chooses to change, and there's no miraculous reward for that. None of the widespread pain he's caused and is still capable of causing his subjects spares him either. There's something striking in seeing this greedy, cruel, mythologically "heroic" figure be so deeply humbled by a universal tragedy; to see him essentially crying out, "Not even me?" and receiving the firm answer of, "No, not even you."

[girlfictions]

Hiba Abu Nada, from I Grant You Refuge (trans. Huda Fakhreddine)

Hiba Abu Nada was a novelist, poet, and educator. She wrote this poem on Oct. 10th, 2023. She died a martyr, killed in her home in south Gaza by an Israeli raid on Oct. 20th, 2023. She was 32 years old.

[tristfulnico]

ugh school again tmrw </3

[metamorphesque]

― Françoise Sagan, Bonjour tristesse (translated by Irene Ash)

[thoughtkick]

I can be someones and still be my own.

Shel Silverstein; The Missing Piece

[krikzilla]

Calm day on Going Merry ☀️☀️☀️

[disregardcanon]

Its (The Gothic) style will tend to be ornate, unnatural and thus operate against the perennial human desire to believe the word as fact. Its only humour is black humour. It retains a single moral function- that of provoking unease.

Angela Carter's Afterward to Fireworks: Nine Profane Pieces

[thehobbitchronicles]

“different isn't bad; it's just not the same" — anne 🌿🪻🪺

[thefourofdiamondsart]

My latest Sir Gawain and the Green Knight illustration, book cover addition! Also, I am currently available for book cover commissions.

prints 🌿

[vermillianno]

Dorian Gray and Alan Campbell - Meeting

[yourmelancholickid]

your voice is better than any song i've heard

[shiroselia]

I appreciate so so much that Maomao continues to visit Xiaolan after she's transferred to the Jade palace. It would've been so easy from a narrative stand-point to just have Maomao go "Man good riddance" about her chatty barely-friend from "back then", but no.

Not only does she continue to speak to Xiaolan, she uses her as an informant of sorts, because Maomao recognizes just how much a person like Xiaolan helps on that front. And she's reoccuring and not forgotten by Maomao Or the narrative as a whole!

[kusnechik]

Little known advantage of when your chemically induced alter ego happens to be a shortstack is that there's more bed per bed

(the panels don't have much to do with each other, I just wanted to fill the empty space)

[tristfulnico]

imagine hating on me and i'm just in my room like this:

[metamorphesque]

The Dance, Siamanto (translated by Tathev Simonyan) text:

And as her tears drowned in her blue eyes, Over a field of ashes, where Armenian life was still dying, A German woman described the horror she had seen. "This unspeakable story I now tell you, I saw it with these ruthless, human eyes, From the window of my safe little home, That opened onto hell Grinding my teeth in fury and in dread… With these pitilessly human eyes, I saw it. It was in the city of Bardez, now a heap of ash, Where corpses were piled to the tops of trees, And from the waters, the springs, the streams, the roads, The murmur of your blood cried out in rebellion… Even now, its voice of vengeance still rings in my ears…" Oh, do not be horrified when I tell you this unspeakable tale… Let humankind understand—man's crime against man, Under the sun of just two days, along the path leading to grave— Man’s evil against man, Let it be known to every heart in this world… That death-drenched morning was a Sunday, The first and futile Sunday rising over the corpses, When in my room, from dusk until dawn, Bent over the death throes of a stabbed girl… I doused her death with my tears… Suddenly, from afar, a dark horde—beastly— With twenty brides—whipping them savagely, Singing songs of lust—stopped in a garden. I, leaving behind the half-dead girl on her mat, Approached the balcony of my hell-facing window… In the garden, the horde thickened like a forest. One of the brutes thundered to the brides: ‘You must dance! You must dance when our drum beats!’ And the whips began to howl with rage  against the bodies of those Armenian women, longing for their death… Hand in hand, the twenty brides began their circle dance… Tears poured from their eyes like open wounds, Ah, how I envied my wounded neighbor, For I heard that with a peaceful sigh and cursing the universe, The beautiful, broken Armenian girl, With her pure soul of a dove, flew toward the stars… In vain, I shook my fists against the crowd… “You must dance,” shrieked the wild horde, “Until your death—you must dance, you infidel beauties, Flapping your tits—you must dance, smiling and without protest… Fatigue is not for you, nor shame— You are slaves—you must dance, stripped down to your skin, Until your death—you must dance, lasciviously and shamelessly. Our eyes are thirsting for your flesh and your death…” The twenty beautiful brides collapsed to the ground, despaired and drained… “Stand up!” they shouted, brandishing their bare swords like serpents, Then one brought a jar of kerosene to the horde… O, human justice, let me spit upon your forehead— The twenty brides were hastily anointed with that fluid… “You must dance!” they thundered, “Here is a perfume, A fragrance Arabia itself cannot offer…” Then with a torch, they set aflame the naked bodies of the brides. And the charred corpses rolled from the dance into death… In horror, I slammed shut the shutters of the window like a storm, And turning to my lonely dead girl, I asked: How can I gouge out these eyes of mine? Tell me—how can I gouge them out…?