#Oxford World Classics

[literatureaesthetic]

beginners guide to classics:

novels —

the picture of dorian gray by oscar wilde (the classic that started it all for me - oscar wilde is KING)

dracula - bram stoker

rebecca - daphne du maurier

a christmas carol - charles dickens

frankenstein - mary shelley

their eyes were watching god - zora neale hurston

the haunting of hill house - shirley jackson

lolita - vladimir nabakov (my current read)

jane eyre - charlotte bronte

plays & short story collections —

the importance of being earnest - oscar wilde

the crucible - arthur miller

the bloody chamber and other short stories - angela carter (adore this)

edgar allen poe's short stories

poetry —

goblin market - christina rossetti

sappho

[sirenascelestiales]

Also! Oxford World Classics and Macmillian Collector's Library are my prettiest covers (add Brontë and Collins to my tbr 😅 can you tell I’m organizing my shelves instead of reading?)

[ijustkindalikebooks]

currently reading.

[protagonistspub]

Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded by Samuel Richardson

Version 1.0.0 Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded by Samuel Richardson was a read to celebrate Jane Austen’s 250th birthday in December of 2025. This is a classic that was published at the end of 1740. To be honest, I have pondering writing this review for over a week now. This isn’t one to easily summarize and come to a conclusion. This book is often held up as the first English novel, and for me, it…

[cynicalclassicist]

Personally, I love this cover of The Monk from Penguin Classics!

It's like Sauron or Euron!

The Many Faces (and Book Covers) of The Monk

Blasphemous, vulgar, wicked—all words used to describe Matthew Lewis’s Gothic masterpiece, The Monk upon its first publication in 1796. Of course, the novel became a runaway best-seller, furitively read by proper young ladies for the promised salaciousness (as Isabella Thorpe and Catherine Morland do in Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey). Written by Matthew Lewis, a young member of parliament just barely twenty-years-old, The Monk left its own mark on the author, who became known, and is sometimes still referred even today, as “Monk” Lewis. Over two centuries later, his masterwork about the diabolical descent of the pious monk Ambrosio into sin—sex, witchcraft, murder, and worse—is a key progenitor of horror fiction and still manages to find an avid and devoted readership while also generating its fair share of great cover art.

Top Row: Left, Matthew “Monk” Lewis, c. 1800; Right, the title page for the first edition of The Monk, in affixing M.P. (Member of Parliament) to his name, Lewis breached a point of ettiquette for the time and added another degree of scandal to the controversy surrrounding his novel.

Second Row: Left, a pulp paperback from the late 60s/early 70s in all its lurid glory; right, the current edition available from Grove Press featuring a cover with art design akin to a heavy metal band’s album cover.

Third Row: Two editions from Oxford World Classics—the current version (left) features a rather benign gentleman with a not-quite sinister smirk; the publisher’s forthcoming edition (right, Jan. 2016) manages to be more effective being somewhat evocative of a nightmarish daguerreotype.

Fourth Row: The two Penguin Classics editions here, past and present, draw upon a similar scene: the previous version (left) uses a wood cut illustration from the first French translation, while the current, black-band edition (right) employs an image culled from Hieronymus Bosch.

Bottom Row: This Modern Library edition (left) makes no secret of the eponymous character’s satanic destiny, while this Italian translation (right) goes one better using Goya’s “Witches’ Sabbath” to set the appropriate tone for the infernal narrative within.

Below: A metro-style movie poster for the 2012 French-produced adaptation directed by Dominik Moll (With a Friend Like Harry…) and starring Vincent Cassel. It’s a sleek, streamlined version of the novel but the tone of its ending is ever so slightly different than the source material.

[magicaloxford]

Happy New Year ! I wish you all the best for 2025 and hope all your dreams may come true ! ✨ (Also, your blog is absolutely magical and so pleasing to look at)

Thank you very much for your kind words! I wish you a magical New Year ✨

[supermaliciousmoi]

hey is this a misprint orrrr...

...because on the Dracula Daily substack...

???

[britneyshakespeare]

I am once again thinking about how the Rover dwarfs all of Aphra Behn's other plays in acknowledgment and how if people read only one Behn play it's always the Rover but it personally for me was not even close to the most interesting play I'd read by her very early on and it's kind of not a light thing I wanna reread because of the two near-rape scenes

[emojiheartenvelope]

[secretceremonials]

Does anybody else’s translation of the metamorphoses use a racial slur as the name of one of acteons hunting dogs or is my charity shop edition really dodgy

[athenasstrap]

I have personally studied a jealous baby

- Saint Augustine of Hippo, Confessions Book I. vii (11)

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

playing with this bow (and arrow)

— chapter 1

author’s note: we’ve made it, folks. i’m writing yet another all-vibes meagre plot erotic thing. everybody act surprised!modern au (well, the 90s, since i’m so very consistent). classical musicians au set in beautiful brno. both viktor and reader are pushing 30. lots of longing and unresolved issues. reader is kind of insufferable, but oh well. you know exactly how i usually write her, don’t you? and, of course, my favorite thing to dabble with: failed marriages. also. i took it upon myself to give viktor a czech last name.

pairing: viktor x fem! reader

rating: mature. mildly nsfw-ish (some bitter masturbation), but expect explicit chapters in the future.

word count: 5k

—

Your bow plows through the strings like a thin dagger, wieldy in the hand of its swordswoman. You drag it to and fro, frenzied in a sweaty-templed convulsion. With your nyloned calves cramping from itchy tension, you almost leap swinging off the edge of your seat, pulling the cello south. The high-pitched finale of Saint-Saëns’ longest concerto finally perishes.

Your bow comes to rest on the A-string, idly fleeing away; the strain of your mouth relaxing, the flutter of eyelids ceasing. And when they spring up, unshielding your blown-out pupils, you have to flinch again—away from the scorching chandelier and its dozen artificial suns, struggling through the white patches in your retinas.

You hold a breath and bask in stunned silence, counting precisely four heartbeats before the audience erupts into a standing ovation. One. The air returns to their lungs, charging for a screeching Bravo! Two. They jump out of their seats, the rustling of their clothes merging into one big swish. Three. The silence finally perishes. Each pair of palms, no matter the size, joins in on the frantic clapping. Four. Someone demands an encore. The others pick it up like an obedient hive, yelling, cheering, impelling you to grab another hold of the bow. You turn towards the orchestra, crooking your best fake smile, and the cycle repeats until everyone runs out of lungfuls to request resumption. 

Then there would be flowers, hearty shoulder pats, and countless impressed gasps preceding wide-eyed dithyrambs: colleagues, students and occasional admirers all producing repetitive praises—the things once catering to your ego, yet long failing to fill the void now. 

‘You were marvelous, Professor.’ Of course they would say that. They could never quite catch your foibles, the way you shamefully strangled allegro moderato’s briskness, delivering but a decent-ish con-brio instead. 

But you’ve always known your etiquette. Turning down praise, no matter how generic, is bad manners. So what if marvelous hardly suited your performance? So what if you were after life-changing, masterful or flawless—everything you've been chasing and failing to seize, a distant idyll that kept slipping through your calloused fingers? 

So you’d shrink your shoulders and bob your head, returning the affectations, and the world would spin in a blur of your suffocating mediocrity until the afterglow of the concert had burned out, leaving you to your doleful tread down the reticent conservatory halls. Marvelous will have to suffice. You’d never call your skills something half as nice, after all. 

You slid the cello onto your hunched shoulders and its weight thumped against their blades, bending you in half. One last adjustment of the strap, and you were out of the dusty building—the heavy door budging under your shove, trading its carved whimsy for the wet, pitch-black grains of tarmacadam under your oxfords. You wanted to tumble right there, to rest your heavy head against the scabrous ground, drunk on the clean smell of ozone. August had no intention of overlapping with September this year, and Brno was drenched to the marrow nearly as soon as your tear-off calendar revealed a big two in fancy cursive. 

You stared at the streetlights, contemplating getting a taxi. The humidity couldn’t be any good for your Klingenthal—the mere thought of slackened plates and lax strings made you feel nauseous, and suddenly, the weight of the instrument in its shiny case had quadrupled. Taxi it is. There’s no chance you’re climbing the Golgotha with a cross that massive.

The Golgotha was what Viktor had dubbed the uphill walk to the bus stop—a spindly street, malicious with bumpy pavement—more so now that it was soaked with slick raindrops. The nickname would reach a twelve-year mark soon—an intimate inside joke that you still found hilarious. It reminded you of the better times, of the first flicker of rosin-colored eyes in the very cool halls behind you, back when neither of you was bound by the same last name or troubled with the title Professor.

You gently laid your cello on the backseat, stroking its downward slope; that, too, was Viktor’s doing—a fifth-anniversary gift, pricey as a fine vintage tends to be. You sighed and crawled into the passenger seat, tiredly announcing the destination to the driver. The man looked spent and drowsy, and you bit your cheek, cautiously staring at the instrument in its lacquered carapace. Your right hand found the ring on your left, anxiously teasing the metal warm.

“Please, drive safely.” You sank into the soft headrest. “My cello is very expensive.” 

The driver gave you a lazy nod and took off, slowly struggling up the Golgotha. The world had sagged under your eyelids. 

It was hard to tell when exactly things went wrong with Viktor. They say young love is bound to ruin you. There’s an inherent danger to it, a gamble of will it-won’t it. But even when it doesn’t tumble right away—there’s always something waiting to be discerned—a crack in the foundation that had been overlooked or deliberately ignored for years, a cancerous tumor surreptitiously waiting to reveal itself during the autopsy. The question is: who will be the first to reach for the scalpel in this marriage? 

You preferred ostracizing Viktor from his omissions. The trick required guile—a self-subjected mind game of believing that he could do no wrong. It was easier that way. How else were you supposed to bask in self-deprecation, to find more excuses for delving into your obsession? You picked a tale old as time—the sinner and the saint, the neglector and the neglected. I am the indiscretor, you chanted. The selfish wife. The bigamist, simultaneously married to man and music. There’s no redemption for me. And I shall make my heart bleed on the fingerboard. 

Dr. Talis didn’t like that approach. Matter of fact, he detested it, always trying his hardest not to roll his eyes at your weekly spirals into hypocrisy. 

“Don’t start, Mrs. Knirsch.” He’d tap his pen against the notepad—a brisk staccato of condemnation. “It’s hardly ever productive.”

Productive. You winced at the word and sliced the condensate with your finger, watching a pivot of sodden city lights creep into the dripping gash. It looked harsh: a cut of black and dazzle in the foggy car window, a mini starry night. You proceeded to carve more amorphous lines into the dusky glass: they dribbled into corpulence, crawling everywhere like thick oak roots. There were five of them—precisely the number of times Jayce had uttered ‘productive’ the last time you saw him, and so you added the sixth crooked mark—a struck-through one, prison tally style.

Dr. Talis was recommended to you by a concerned upstairs neighbor. She was a darling spinster, nosy—but benevolent. When Viktor bid his indefinite farewell, her motherly shoulder was the first (and only) one to welcome your puffy face. 

The next morning you were dragging up Petrov Hill, looking an utter mess—all laddered tights and tear-sodden cheeks. The shrink had taken you in before his opening hours, no questions asked. He hovered above you in the bulky stance of a weary, kind man, and you hit the wall, choking on whines.

But, as it often happens, that first impression was nothing short of mutual deception. His—of you crying all over his parquet. Yours—of him understandingly nodding along. Every session following that one was spent strictly within your confines. You quit sobbing. He quit being patient. A professional relationship built on a vulnerable mishap that had rarely occurred ever since.

And yet, you had nowhere else to go. This bespectacled, large therapist had become your only friend—a paid-for one, no less (and even so, you still confided in him quite selectively). Every Monday and Friday, you were sitting on his vintage couch, pondering anything but the issue at hand. All while he was trying to crack you again, confused by the loss of a miserable woman who had crawled to him at seven in the morning two months ago. 

For all it’s worth, you quite liked the man. There was an ineffable comfort in his mild incompetence, ridiculous height, motley ties, and expensive woolly sweaters. He always looked tired, browline glasses hanging low on a big nose, dark hair glinting with too much gel. His face was sheer jawline and perpetual morning shade (another ridiculous feature, considering you only ever booked evening sessions). You wondered if he’d worn the glasses just to sharpen his big eyes: light and perceptive, they stared right through you with tender, glassy might, clashing with his virile angles. 

His office resided in a moldy Austrian building—a two-story, worn-down thing flanking the cathedral, with its dusty Biedermeier windows staring right through the pretty lancets.

The place was hoarding all kinds of contentious trinkets—Tiffany lamps, fake flowers, checkered cushions, and little mockeries of classical masterpieces strewn across every wall. Mona Lisa smoking a cigarette. A frame from The Simpsons recreating The Last Supper. Venus boldly flashing the viewer instead of shyly covering her breasts with a dainty palm. 

Your only grievance with the place was the window. Such a clear view of the church’s insides made your sessions feel like soft-spoken confessions, supervised by Christ himself; the distant crucifix always dwelling somewhere in your peripheral, creeping in the bleakness of gorgeous neighboring windows. 

You’ve only properly visited the cathedral once: when Viktor volunteered to introduce you to Brno, utterly enraged by your scarce route of choice.

“How dare you disrespect us like that!” he murmured, shaking his head in earnest disapproval. “How come you’ve spent an entire year here, in the heart of Moravia, and yet the only walk you ever take is from the dorm to the conservatory? No, that won’t do! I have this thing,” he nudged you with his cane, earning himself a chuckle, “what’s your excuse?” 

So he showed you picturesque at its finest, from Old Town Hall to St. Peter and Paul’s—an entire day of labyrinths, ossuaries, and bunkers, a palette of Czech beauties guided by the main one—lanky, well-spoken, and dressed in corduroy head-to-toe. Too bad your most vivid memory from the church was Viktor’s nape, dissected into a dozen square watts of light and drowning in not-yet-overgrown hair, its prickly ends sunbleached—the pipeline of umber to ochre. You didn’t mind, though. ‘In a room full of art, I’d still stare at you,’ or however that cheesy saying goes. 

And now that swivel of maudlin was intruding on your attempts to fix the irreparable: twice a week, like clockwork, Jesus was poking his pierced-through legs into Jayce’s window, disturbing your therapy session. 

“Stop ogling Jesus’ feet, Mrs. Knirsch.” Jayce snapped his fingers at you—a dull, sweat-spoiled sound. You bolted and met his eyes, scrunching your nose in sudden awareness of some mawkish whiff in the room. The culprit—a reed aroma diffuser the color of cough syrup—was glowering at you from the coffee table, emitting stifling vanilla. 

You pulled at a stick, watching the oil dribble down the thin trunk. It made you smile, meek and lopsided—a shaky omen of inevitable distraction. The therapist clicked his tongue, drawing your attention back to his scorn. The clock above his head showed a quarter past six, meaning there were forty-five more minutes of confession left at your disposal. 

“I don’t like his feet.” You abandoned the reeds, pushing the bottle away. Jayce caught it just in time, sucking a furious breath: right before the essence had the chance to spill all over his Turkish carpet.

“Mrs. Knirsch.”

“What? They’re pale and disturbing. I don’t know how you can just sit here, having them stare at you all day.”

“Mrs. Knirsch!”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“Because it reminds you of your ex-husband?”

“No, because I prefer to be addressed by my first name. And he’s still my husband. We’re merely going through a separation.” 

“Oh, believe me, with that attitude, you’re definitely going to end up divorced.”

“Are you sure you’re a real therapist? Can I see your license again?” 

Jayce didn’t react to that. He sighed and nosed his notepad, looking up at you from under his crooked glasses. The whimsy of bickering never lasted with him. It always dissolved when Jayce would return to the very thing therapists were meant for. 

Probing. 

“Please, remind me, why are you here?” Jayce coughed and propped his chin on a sturdy fist, taking his signature cross-legged interrogation stance.

You pondered his impressive knuckles, swallowing a lumpy gulp. They were thick digits of a stern man—digits that could’ve easily pulled classified information out of terrified KGB agents. You wondered if that was his occupation before he decided to become a shrink. 

You pulled your skirt over your knees, straightening into a defensive sapling. 

“I’m here to figure out why my husband wants to leave me—“ 

Jayce didn’t let you finish. His pen (that infuriating bauble!) loudly tapped the notepad again—like a makeshift incorrect buzzer. You wanted to tear the thing from his grip and throw it into Mona Lisa’s mouth, wincing with rage. But that option implied being ejected out of this quaint place.

So you decided to budge.

“I’m here because I work too much.”

The pen stopped mid-strike, hanging in the air. 

“And?” The therapist trailed off, tongue running over his palate in pregnant anticipation. 

“And I’m obsessed to the point of neglecting everyone around me. Myself included.”

Jayce smiled. The pen-guillotine withdrew from the blow, limply landing on the table.

“Correct.” He nodded, looking very pleased with himself. “Figuring out your Viktor business is but a bonus point. Speaking of the devil—“ Jayce licked his fingers and flicked the page, preparing a clean sheet for his observations. “How is he doing?” 

You stared at the clock, drawing a nasal breath. The dial foreboded forty more minutes of this torture. 

“I don’t know. He’s in London, playing Schubert.”

“Ah.” Jayce clicked his tongue. “So you do know. Is the separation not going as planned?”

You scoffed, tumbling against the couch, limbs flailing boneless in resignation. “The separation is going just fine. We haven’t spoken in two months. I just know he’s touring in Europe this time of the year.” 

“But have you seen each other?”

“We work at the same conservatory. Go figure.”

“How’s that, by the way?”

“Fine. My students think I’m their local Yo-Yo Ma, or something. The usual.”

“And what do you have to say about that?”

“I think they ought to go see a doctor for an ear irrigation.” 

Jayce huffed, quickly scribbling something down. “I see. Self-deprecating as ever. Well done, Mrs. Knirsch. No productivity in that capacity. But that’s all right. It’s a… process. Have you been following the curfew, at the very least?”

You chuckled at the wording, squeezing the hem of your skirt. ‘The curfew’ was a newly imposed restriction to help you overcome your compulsive rehearsing—no coming near the cello first thing in the morning (brush your teeth and have breakfast first, for god’s sake!), no playing it past eight PM, either. 

Now, this part of ‘the process’ has been rather dreary. If anything, you found it damaging to Jayce’s beloved productivity—it hardly did anything except make you count the torturous seconds until you were allowed to pick up the instrument again, fingers itching like those of an addict in urgent need of a fix. 

Anyhow.

“It’s okay,” you acquiesced, throwing your head back. The rippled ceiling gazed back at you, threatening to crumble into your eyes. “God. You really need to refresh this place. Am I not paying you enough?”

“As a matter of fact: yes. I don’t get paid nearly enough to catechize you like this twice a week.” 

“Ha!” You pointed your shaky finger at Jayce, smiling an accusatory grin. “I see what you did there. Catechize. You have a cathedral rearing your windows. Well done, Mr. Talis. Have you considered becoming a stand-up comedian?” 

“Define okay for me, Mrs. Knirsch.” 

“Okay is okay. What’s there to define?”

“Everything needs definition with you. I’m going to ask you again: please, define okay.”

You sat up.

“Well, I’m following it. I have an alarm set for eight PM. I still think it’s stupid, though. It accomplishes nothing but my misery.” 

The KGB interrogator melted back into a smiling man. 

“Excellent!” He affirmed, almost sing-songy. His pen followed in a sequence of happy scribbles. “That’s the aim.”

“What is? My misery?” You sneered, curtly eyeing the dial. Only thirty-two minutes left. Thirty-two endless minutes until you can finally play your guts out—if you make it home in time, that is. 

“No. The process. That’s how you treat an addiction.”

“Addiction? Please. Music is not heroin.” 

“I beg to differ. In your case, it might just be opium.” 

You sipped your bottom lip into your mouth and chewed on the soft tissue; tongue and teeth grinding over little wounds, tasting bronzey guilt. Dr. Talis pointed to his mouth, urging you to stop. You spat out your mangled lip and he watched it become plump again—all swollen skin dribbling with fresh bloody crescents. The incident was immediately reported to his little dossier. 

“You’re doing that thing to your lip again.” 

“I’m sorry. I can’t help. I always do that when I feel attacked.” 

“Oh. Admission. That’s nice, for a change. What made you feel attacked? Was it something I did?”

“It’s not you, per se. It’s Viktor. He said something similar about opium once. It’s a shrewd metaphor.”

“Shrewd enough to make you eat yourself alive like that?” 

“Don’t be a smartass. I’m contemplating cracking here.”

The minute hand shuffled, and you were reminded of the remaining half of the torture. You skimmed over the selection of Jayce’s caricatures, only to invariably linger on the voyeur-Venus, squinting for a better look. Ever since you first started coming here, she’d become a scapegoat for your telltales. Who could possibly be more vulnerable than a woman with her soul out? That’s right. A woman with her tits out. Though, you’d rather reveal the latter than the former. And the voyeur-Venus looked vastly more comfortable anyhow. 

Jayce hurried to intrude, shielding the painting as his head emerged from the notes. You groaned, having been reduced to the only bare person in the room again. 

“Do you think of him often?” 

He regretted the fumble right away. Your eyes had regained their bludgeon glint, aiming for his throat. 

“My partner of twelve years, seven of which we’ve been married, had just requested a separation. Take an educated guess.” 

“I’m sorry. I’ll rephrase the question. How often do you think of him?”

“My every waking moment. And, considering that I get six hours of sleep on a good night, that adds up to a rather pathetic sum of… about eighteen to twenty hours a day. All the time, Jayce. I think of him all the time.” 

“Once again, I’m so, so sorry. This separation—how long is it supposed to last? And, if it doesn’t help your cause—which, let’s hope it never comes down to that, yeah?” He shot you an apologetic smile, shakily clicking his pen. “What’s the plan in that case?” 

You glowered past him, tiredly seeking Venus again, and Jayce hunched, aiding the fervent pursuit of your beacon. But when the frame sprang up from above his head, you rejected it, squeezing your eyes shut. Temples full of pulsating blood, short nails deep under bleeding cuticles (Dr. Talis had put that down, too, by the way), and in a second you were recoiling at your embarrassed “I don’t know”—all dry throat and taut calves, charging as if to snap. 

Jayce blinked: once, twice. The third one must’ve been staged, just to match your three-syllable answer. He huffed, at last, wiping his glasses against his cashmere sweater.

“Don’t know…to the separation deadline or the plan in case you go through with the divorce?”

“All of it.” You whined. “Any of it. I live in willful ignorance.” 

“But why? Hasn’t it occurred to you to… at least request some ephemeral due date?”

“You’re judging me. Proper therapists are not supposed to do that.”

“Well, I’m no ‘proper’ therapist. I’m just the kind you need.” 

A giggle had rippled through the tears—a brief exchange of pathetic things coming in and out of your mouth. You tasted salt now, prickly, raw, and sizzling, a mess of wailing and mascara chunks, all dribbling down your chin and onto the mohair skirt, its saddle brown now speckled with wet carob. You tried to stop it, to push those shameful things back into your waterline, and yet they rolled, and rolled, and rolled, flooding the quaint office. Dr. Talis got his miserable patient back. 

He offered you his handkerchief, lamenting the decision as you loudly blew your nose into the shiny white. 

“I just… I felt like I had no say in it. I hurt him. He wanted a break from me. I simply went along.” 

“It’s not a question of who hurt whom. You’re supposed to make those decisions together, as a couple.” 

You looked up from the ruined cloth, blinking the blur away.  “I thought you were on his side.”

“There is no side.” Jayce tsked, mentally calling the dry cleaning. “You’re hurting too. It’s time you embraced it.” 

“Nonsense. I have no right to feel hurt.”

And then it came. The third pen-thud of the session, the weary frown, the infamous “Don’t start, Mrs. Knirsch. It’s hardly ever productive.” 

The hour hand was practically licking the chunky Franklin Gothic seven on the dial. It’s truly unsettling how much time one can waste sobbing. 

“Tell you what.” Jayce set his notepad on his lap, and you instantly arched, trying to sneak a glance. But, to your utmost disappointment, the thing was laid report-down, irrevocably classified. 

You flicked the last parched tear and shrugged, rolling the mascara crumbs between your thumb and index. “Tell me what.”

“By next Tuesday, I want you to prepare me a list of all the reasons why you feel hurt by this separation. Could be minor, inconsequential details. Could be something more tangible. Your choice. Anything but the absence of a due date, since we’ve already established that much.” 

You sniffled, peering at your hands. Black stains of makeup were drying on your calluses, enhancing the scabs of your labor. These were pockmarks of a true cellist—one-of-a-kind, immaculate, sensual. Suddenly, you were yearning for the instrument, to hell with curfew—your only desire was to have the beloved four strings cut through your fingertips, merging with the marrow. 

You quit picking at your dirty skin. “That’s just weird. I’m here to stop hurting Viktor. What you’re suggesting is just gloating in poor-me’s.”

Dr. Talis gripped his nose bridge, twisting it as if to snap the cartilage. “How do you expect to un-learn your hurtful ways when you hardly even know what hurt is?”

“What if I discover something I hate about him?”

“So be it!” Jayce rose to his feet. His knees made a crunchy sound, screaming for a long walk. “Any scenario where you feel anything but pointless guilt is a win in my book.” 

“Can I read it?” You nodded to his notes. 

“No chance.” 

“What about the handkerchief?”

“Keep it. I’m not interested in catching some weird, wailing disease.”

“Failed marriages are not contagious, you know.”

“And thank god for that!” 

You lumbered out of the car, spilling a bunch of korunas. They jarred onto the slippery pavement out of your loose pockets—a downpour of fives and tens, all swiveling in between sandy joints. The driver murmured a rhotic profanity, tutting at his scattered tip, and the cab trundled away, bobbing on the pebbles. 

“Sorry,” you offered into the alley, watching the plate number canter into the smog of the awry Veveří district. The curious upstairs neighbor gawked out of her window, hunching over the ledge; her frantic Einstein-blowout parted in twain, out like a greying halo. You tipped your head backward and waved, cracking your last smile of the night. She waved back and lolloped inside, heavy slippers shuffling around. You watched her disappear under the citrusy light of her lamp, swearing to never take therapist recommendations from sweet old ladies again. 

You conquered three flights of stairs with breathy effort, hanging on to the straps of your cello case. Then came the habitual array of jingling keys and wan grips on the doorframe—inevitably through stinging, agape pants as the instrument gently thumped to the floor, the hum of strings an eerie vibration in between plates. It’s an unwieldy position: back—pressed against the jaundiced wallpaper, legs—tangled in a frenetic kick-away of clunky oxfords, and, finally, you were free of your confines: stockings, scarf, and skirt, all divested of into a limp heap. The heavy coat plopped over the mess, leaving but a dirty shoe to glint from beneath the huge leather sleeve—a single unshielded thing, waiting to be swept to the side. 

The apartment greets you with a damp smack of bare feet against the saggy hardwood, the wallpaper daffodils becoming the cheery color of mustard when you roughly flicker the switch and idly grope your way through the half-lit rooms. You bump into the bathroom door—all awkward brushes of naked thighs—and the world cuts itself into dozens of paper-white tiles, their glint ghostly, almost asylumish. You yearn for the mirror, bending above the slippery sink. The reflection shows you a weary, barely clad woman. Her underwear slides down her legs, scrunching into a skimpy fold of—yet again—paper-white. Her tile-counterparts copy the sentiment: a bunch of flyweight-yous, all peeling the final layer of their dignity. 

This used to be Viktor’s job. The thought follows you into the glass door, refusing to vaporize even when you blast hot water into your mouth—like you expect it to somehow reach your brain and melt its austerity into obtuse condensation. Sick from chlorine, your capillaries pop like a bloodshot spill. The stream persists, crawling under your prickly lashes. Viktor’s face emerges from the froth, urging you to add some salt into this whirling cocktail, and the tears oblige, goading their way out of your waterlines.

Viktor bled kindness from his fingertips. You mourned the feeling of his hands, their slothful, caring glide over the gorges of your hip dips—gently peeling the lace from those pretty dents and dragging it over your darling convexities. An exciting, albeit not-yet-erotic dance. A sweet routine, every night before shower—a blessing long forgotten. 

You hold the soap under the steaming water in a vain attempt at feigning a human’s touch, its flit foreign on your back—a mushy lick that could never compete with the real thing. It pours in between your toes, thick and foamy; splits your body with milky rivulets, and lingers there in a murky trace—a study in things unfinished, a desperate search for whatever little hatred you’re allowed.

Your options assemble into the shittiest hand one could be dealt—a measly two-seven offsuit where two stands for the torturous months of his absence, and seven for the number of pathetic highs you dryly rode out around your sore fingers. Oh the miserable repercussions of sexual frustration. You contemplate upgrading it to two-eight, wet forehead tightly pressing against the glass, the squeak of clean skin a wince-igniting high-pitch. 

Your hand falters. The dirty double-down stops mid-slope, coiled under your breast—a skittish tug and drop, half-hard nipple seized mid-thumb and index. You try to blow on it as Viktor-esque as you can—a stupid, vicarious stunt, but your breath gets lost in the vapor, failing to land home. You quit the thing with a strangled groan, tepidly going straight for the main ache. The itch between your thighs welcomes one awkward finger, not nearly enough to make up for the loss of him—the painful opposite of a tight fit. 

Viktor. A two-syllabic, tender torture. You murmur the name like a breathy chant, the third reiteration half-assed and stumbling over the consonants. Your molars grind into powder when you claim your first head-to-toe shiver, the balls of your feet suddenly unsturdy. You think of his mouth, chapped lips upturned in a cruel denial of a kiss. The smell of him, now banished from the sheets with detergent. But you could still make it out: clean skin and the faintest whiff of piney soap. The very one slithering out of your grasp, the closest you’ve come to touching him in months. His button-down, forgotten on the shabby piano stool—the one you don’t dare move, as if trying to conjure him bent over the keys and vehemently taping out Beethoven. His penciled-in partiture, thrown all over the place—kitchen counters, desks, shelves and floors, a map of minuscule scribbles and serendipitous choices for countless coituses. 

Your high slips through your fingers, escaping down the drain. You change the angle, but the chase proves fruitless: your every inch both sensitive and senseless, a stubborn ache refusing to be tamed. With your lips bitten bloodless and your hair a wet sheet of cold strands, you screw the faucet, catching your angry face in its warped reflection. 

The strange, tired woman comes back, now smudged with runny mascara. You ponder her, naked and afraid, wrapped in the terror of her-your sudden revelation. 

You didn’t hate Viktor for leaving. To that, he was fully entitled. For that, you could even forgive him if only you tried hard enough. 

The culprit lay deeper. Uglier. Out of all his grudges, no matter how thoroughly you went over them, you always failed to find a single valid one. Hell, you failed to acknowledge there were any grudges to begin with. 

All along, you didn’t hate him for the separation. You hated him for finding a reason to separate. 

For being the first to reach for the scalpel. 

You stumble out of the shower, staring straight ahead. Viktor’s piano glints at you from the bedroom, sad and lacquered, with no fluff of hair darkly hovering above it. You linger in the doorway, wrinkled fingers damply groping the wall, and the naked staring contest lasts a few long minutes. That is, before you grow bored. That is, before you pivot into the hallway and drag the expensive tumor of your marriage out of its shiny case. 

At one in the morning, the sweet upstairs neighbor banged on your door with a noise complaint. 

But you couldn’t hear her. Not over the maniacal squeaking of strings. Well, what did she expect? Dvořák’s cello pieces are known for crescendos.

—

-> chapter 2

[thatscarletflycatcher]

In view of the recent uproar about the booktok baity Penguin editions of Jane Austen novels:

Penguin is not only a very giant corp, but has also been pulling this sort of stunt for a good while now (e.g. their "clothbound classics" that are just the paperback classics with a hard cardboard cover -which makes reading much more difficult- and the cloth part is so bad it starts rubbing off with minimal handling).

Oxford World's Classics Editions exist as an alternative to Penguin's Classics, and are, IMO, much better as a general rule when it comes to introduction, context and notes.

Jane Austen novels being social satires does not make them not romances. Jane Austen novels being romances does not make them not social satires. This is because her social satire is developed explicitly in the context of the family, its structures and relationships, and a lot of the philosophical building of her novels is the proposal of good and healthy structures and relationships in contrast with the bad ones she's satirizing. That kind of necessitates both love and marriage, which are the bread and butter of romance.

[michele-apricity]

𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓪𝓬𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓶𝓲𝓪 ˙⟡🪶─

𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒊𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒗 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔

Some of my favourite movies and tv shows that I keep rewatching literally all the time, also fit the dark academia aesthetic...

𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒔

Dead Poets Society (1989)

A timeless film about the power of literature and the consequences of challenging societal norms in a boarding school.

The Talented Mr. Ripley (1999)

A psychological thriller drenched in luxury, deception, and the pursuit of identity.

Kill Your Darlings (2013)

Follows young Allen Ginsberg and his entanglement in a murder during his time at Columbia University.

Atonement (2007)

A visually stunning film about love, betrayal, and regret, with an air of intellectual melancholy.

The Imitation Game (2014)

A story of genius and tragedy, focusing on Alan Turing’s work during WWII.

The Riot Club (2014)

A dark examination of privilege and elitism among Oxford students in a secret society.

Harry Potter Series (2001-2011)

Especially The Prisoner of Azkaban, which captures the darker, atmospheric tones of the series.

Crimson Peak (2015)

A Gothic romance with haunting visuals and themes of mystery and intellect.

The Oxford Murders (2008)

A mystery set at Oxford University, blending logic, philosophy, and crime-solving.

The Theory of EVerything (2014)

A poignant biopic about Stephen Hawking’s life, featuring beautiful academic settings.

𝒕𝒗 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔

The Umbrella Academy (2019-2024)

While more fantastical, its themes of family, ambition, and intellectualism align with dark academia. (we're going to act as if the 4th season never happened)

Sherlock (2010-2017)

A modern take on Arthur Conan Doyle’s detective stories, with a focus on intellect and mystery.

The Queen’s Gambit (2020)

A visually stunning series about genius, competition, and the pressures of academia-like environments.

Penny Dreadful (2014-2016)

A Gothic series weaving together classic literary characters with dark, intellectual themes.

How to Get Away with Murder (2014-2020)

A thrilling blend of academia and crime, revolving around law students entangled in murder mysteries.

Derry Girls (2018-2022)

Though comedic, the show captures an academic setting with themes of friendship and youthful rebellion.

The Magicians (2015-2020)

A fantasy series with a dark academia feel, featuring a secret university for magic and complex moral questions.

His Dark Materials (2019-2022)

A richly intellectual fantasy series set in an alternate, academic-focused world.

Gilmore Girls (2000-2007)

While lighter, it captures the love of books, academia, and witty intellectual banter.

Shadow and Bone (2021-)

A mix of dark fantasy and the kind of rich world-building that appeals to dark academia enthusiasts.

Let me know your favourite movies and/or tv shows that I should watch.

-michala♡

[goobtopia]

crime and punishment [farleigh start]

!! 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!

based on this request

summary: after a dinner party at saltburn you confront your long time friend, farleigh, about his odd behavior surrounding felix’s new friend from oxford.

warnings: 18+, SMUT, f!reader, (kinda) p*rn without plot, kissing, praise kink, mentions of p in v sex, thigh riding, nipple play, dom!farleigh, wealthy reader, mention of bullying, swearing, farleigh is both mean and whiny you’ve been warned

[requests are open]

☆ masterlist ☆

-

“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong or keep giving me the silent treatment?” You crossed your arms in the entryway of Farleigh’s room. He refused to look up from his Dostoevsky summer reading or give you any kind of acknowledgment.

You sighed, finally entering the room so you could sit at the edge of his bed making sure to shut the door behind you. With you facing him and your legs tucked under your body, he obviously couldn’t focus on the passage enough to continue reading so he sighed, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” This was classic Farleigh, so upset or so angry that he’d just shut it down instead. It was something of a compliment you guessed, when Farleigh didn’t care to hurt anyone with his words informed by his loathing his insults were quick and harsh. I once watched him send Gavey crying in the quad after spilling coffee on his lecture notes and heard he was in and out of the school counseler’s office after that.

“If this is about earlier…” You trailed off, unknowingly hitting the nail on the head for Farleigh and you jumped when his hard cover book made a deafening crack as it closed. “No, why would I be upset about earlier? It’s not like everyone has been up Oliver’s ass all semester, so much so that you take his side and make me look like a jackass in front of everybody.” He was calm, spoke in a sickly sweet voice as the book was discarded near his pillows.

You never pulled punches with Farleigh, he knew this, which is why he shouldn’t have been so surprised when you defended your actions, “Farleigh you made yourself look like an ass, like when everyone stopped laughing because it was literally painful to watch.” He ran a hand over his khaki colored corduroy pants, his fingers adorned with expensive silver rings, as he rested his ear against his shoulder. A sign he was licking his wounds after you walked out to check on Oliver leaving him alone to sing the rest of his shitty song.

“You get so… prideful around him, like you’re trying to prove something. I’ve never seen you like this.” The way Farleigh kept attacking Oliver was far from his usual pettiness, no Farleigh was always quick but even the butt of his jokes would find themselves laughing about it eventually. Here it was like he was taking everything just a step too far, you didn’t understand how Oliver got under his skin so badly.

Sure, he didn’t come from your world but it wasn’t like he was being a nuisance, there was no reason in your mind to embarrass him by picking a song for him that Farleigh was sure Oliver didn’t know. “Well, he’s a fucking creep. He’s sneaking around with Venetia and he’s cozying up to you lately, he had you using his lap as a couch coushin in there.” He looked disgusted by the thought.

You hadn’t thought anything of it honestly, if Venetia was settled in her brother’s lap in a platonic fashion you figured it was all in the spirit of the night. The closeness and camaraderie we found amongst yourselves in these nights, that was like tradition to you. “Farleigh…” You trailed in a tone reeking of disappointment in one of your best friends, “What? You don’t think so?” He quipped.

Your silence spoke for itself and he scoffed, “Well then you’re a fucking idiot.” Your voice, while not loud, cut through the air like a knife, “Hey. You do not speak to me like that.” You pointed your finger, straightening your back out. Next thing you know he’s pinning you down by your thighs, using this new leverage to lean into your face.

“What are you gonna do about it? Run and tell poor little orphan Ollie?” He nodded, silently coaxing an answer from you. “You’re being mean Farleigh.” You whisper, showing weakness for a moment not even thinking about the fact your friend doesn’t ever touch you like this. Somehow, it’s the least of your worries.

With a heaving chest he looks down at your lips, focusing in on them as they draw into a tight line with the silence. “I wouldn’t be so mean if you hadn’t been,” His tongue runs over his bottom lip. “…misbehaving.” You lost the ability to breathe for a moment, suddenly forced to face the lines that were most definitely being crossed. This was uncharted territory for the both of you.

One hand came up to your face, pressing his thumb lightly into the center of your chin making sure to slowly bring it up and gauge your reaction. His knuckle hooked over your bottom lip until the pad of his thumb grazed the wetness of your tongue. You closed your mouth around it instantly, earning a groan from the tall boy towering over you.

Swiftly he removed himself, pocketing his hands under your thighs and throwing your weight on top of his so you were open for him across the thick muscle of his leg. “You gonna be good for me?” You nodded, bracing yourself on his shoulders. “Yes, I am.” You said without hesitation, some new fire ignited you craved to fuel.

You were pulled by the nape of your neck to meet his lips in a fervent kiss pressing your whole body against his. Lips slid against each other as they danced in harmony, tongues exploring one another as you began grinding your hips against him hoping to relieve some of the pressure building in your core.

His free hand locked onto your hip to stall any movement as he pulled away from you, “Take it easy babe, just let me touch you.” You could’ve melted right there, his hand traveled up your nightgown and grazed over the seam on the side of your panties. “Oh really?” He sounded almost proud in his surprise at your lack of pants.

He explored further, reaching up to your right breast and grazing his nail against your nipple. Your hips stuttered involuntarily, amusement written on his face as he watched your face screw in pleasure. “F-fuck” Your voice cracked, feeling that stimulation go straight to your core.

“You gonna let me have a taste?” He pouted, twisting the nipple in between his fingers leaving you breathless and desperate for more. “Yes, fuck, please just put your mouth on me.” You whined, and Farleigh didn’t need to be asked twice. Your gown was ripped from your body leaving you in just a little pair of panties and nothing aside from your stark nakedness.

Of course, he had to take a moment to admire your body, so soft and beautiful, like unwrapping a gift he’s always yearned for. “Farleigh, please.” Your voice sounded pathetic almost, but you were worried if either one of you paused for too long you’d come to your senses and stop. And empty fear seeing as it would probably take an act of god to seperate the two of you at this moment.

“Shut up, I wanna see what you’ve been hiding from me all these years.” His hands explored practically every inch of you, his eyes grazing against your stomach, your breasts, you thighs. He couldn’t stop imagining what your hips might look like settled on top of his own, stuffed to the brim with his cock.

He couldn’t wait anymore, he unbuckled his silver and black belt, letting it hit the floor somewhere before jimmying them halfway off all with you in his lap. Now your sex was making indirect contact with a small sliver of his skin between his boxers and pants. “I’m gonna spend some time with these,” He began to explain, giving each breast a squeeze. “But you’re gonna get off on my thigh before I do anything else. Understand?” You nodded with confidence, hiding your dissapointment in him. All you wanted was for him to be inside you, tending to that most sensitive part of you and he was making you do it yourself.

But you could give him a show, make him so insatiable he’d have no choice but to turn you over and fuck you after seeing the way you grind into that muscle. “Yes, I understand. I’ll be good for you.” You cooed in your most sultry voice. It must’ve been an effective plan because his head dipped to tend to you almost instantly.

With lips and teeth scratching against the sensitive skin of your nipple, you felt like you were going crazy. You didn’t need to be reminded of you task because your hips did all the work for you at the feeling he provided. It was like your breasts had a direct line to your clit, making any friction against it double in intensity.

Your hips weren’t thrashing against him by any means but you were still racing to reach that high, something Farleigh helped along by bouncing his thigh against you. Farleigh switched breasts, leaving a free hand to guide your motions along him in frustration. “God I can’t wait to fuck you.” He humbled against your chest, “Been so good for me, haven’t you? My good girl.”

You barely registered the words, not that it would’ve changed anything. If being Farleigh’s good girl meant pleasure like this you didn’t care.

You were getting closer, mumbling harder as you threw your head back in pleasure. Farleigh could barely make out any of your words besides: fuck, please, so close; he guessed he didn’t need the details. He grabbed the middle fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side so your clit was bare and began to catch onto Farleigh’s boxers, creating a new devilish form of friction against that bundle of nerves.

“I’m gonna cum.” Your voice was light and broken. It had come embarrassingly fast but with Farleigh’s tongue flicking against the second most sensitive bundle of nerves, there was no way you could’ve helped it. No doubt it was boosting Farleigh’s ego, something that was far from necessary.

He lifted his head, keeping one hand aimed at the pleasure points on your chest, “Look at me. I wanna see that look in your eyes.” You sped up, keeping eyes contact with him as your jaw felt slack and that impossibly tight knot in your core finally broke, letting pleasure avalanche over your senses. Farleigh kept on you with that look of amusement at how quickly you came undone through his own manipulation.

You sadly clenched around nothing as your legs shook a bit and you slowly rode out the high, not wanting to keep the same pace now that you were so sensitive. Farleigh pulled you into another kiss, this one deeper but more sensual than before. There was no rush now, neither of was going anywhere.

“Fuck you’re never leaving this bed.” He confessed between kisses, promising you this wasn’t just a one-off thing. “Not until I’m finished with you.”