#henry winter
“does such a thing as ‘the fatal flaw’, that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? i used to think it didn’t. now i think it does. and i think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs” — the secret history, donna tartt.
the secret historyby donna tartt.
no thoughts just henry winter
the feminine urge to fall in love with the villain.
r.i.p. henry winter you would have loved ‘no body no crime’ by taylor swift.
“cubitum eamus?”
“what?”
“nothing.”
“beauty is terror. whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”
okay, okay, but consider: a ‘the secret history’ movie adaptation with a soundtrack made by Lorde
the greek class has a combined total of like 3 braincells and camilla has them 94% of the time
Oh for Dionysos’ sake, I can’t seem to find a good bacchanal playlist that conveys the exact emotion I imagine when thinking about the absolute euphoria and insanity a bacchanal radiates
Henry Winter
- “The secret history”
I have a type and it’s henry winter
Full page.
Redistribution of matter.
Yes there’s a pince-nez floating in the background, so what?
Oh well
“I was emboldened and strengthened by the parade of misery passing before my eyes. I was experiencing the same excitement that a revolution causes. In the fire these miserable ones had witnessed the total destruction of every evidence that they existed as human beings. Before their eyes they had seen human relationships, loves and hatreds, reason, property, all go up in flame. And at that time it had not been the flames against which they fought, but against human relationships, against loves and hatreds, against reason, against property.”
– excerpt from Confessions of a Mask by Yukio Mishima
in the dead of the night, often i think of missed opportunities. fantasies that could have been moments turned memories. a split second of doubt that erased a friendship, lost touch with a darling one, now a stranger and nothing more. if only i danced with fire, talks beneath the setting sun, silent walks with the words of the dead, our omission to companionship, and camaraderie, and love so severe, would appear apparent in sunken eyes. if only i leapt without thinking, for once, i could’ve known the secrets of the universe and be with a person that finally, only understood me.
justice is blind, more often than not. many animals thrive in the halls of law, they are not savages, yet slaughter the innocent for speaking truth. they are not evil incarnate, yet play with human life as if mere pawns in a game. they are not gods, but people in business suits.
Sonder. Its the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as you do. We may feel as if we alone precedes this world. We strive to be the main character. When in fact, we all have our differences. Life for me may feel like I’m living in a Donna Tartt novel. On the other hand, the eclectic old man I often see in my local bookstore would say that he is a lone ranger fighting off wicked men from the Wild West. The said old man is just one of the many figures I distinctly remember in my book-hunting escapades. These strangers— those I often see in bookstores made me realize that I am many things in a person’s life. A Hero. Villain. or simply a spectator.
you know what’s more intimate than a kiss? giving someone a personal copy of your favorite book. in all its tattered glory or near-perfect condition. ink highlights a memorable line— of a sentence that made your cry. or where countless post-its decorate the pages. in pinks, blues or yellows. others leave questions, or answers within hardbound copies, soft ones most of the time. it’d be even more surprising if someone left lipstick stains
“There are such things as ghosts. People everywhere have always known that. And we believe in them every bit as much as Homer did. Only now, we call them by different names. Memory. The unconscious.”
