When Emily Dickinson said “How dreary to be somebody”, and Daffodils said “It’s been raining inside my head again”, and Oscar Wilde said “Behind sorrow there is always sorrow”.
Henry Tilney’s unabashed love of muslin and Ann Radcliffe, when contrasted with John Thorpe’s dull-headed dismissal of novels and refusal to shut up about his stupid, blinged-out carriage, is this perfect example of how modes of masculinity that depend on rejecting feminine-coded pleasures are sort of doomed to fail on their own terms. You cannot be a tough, self-assured man when you’re too self-conscious to allow yourself the pleasure of a genre containing such winning titles as Necromancer of the Black Forest just because it’s associated with the ladies.
“June weather. Still, bright, fresh. But my mind is very bare to words—English words—at the moment; they hit me, hard, I watch them bounce and spring. I detest my own volubility. Why be always spouting words? I can write nothing. Also I have almost lost the power of reading.”
have you read a book that made your eyes water at the end so you could not read the book properly but you wanted that to happen because you did not want to complete that book and when the tear finally fell you felt relieved but you also wanted to forget you ever read the book just to reread it and feel that flutter of heart again
you know when you really want to read a new book but you also want it to be JUST LIKE this other book you finished but not exactly the same but similar but still different but with the same vibes but completely new? yeah.
i love YA fiction but it’s so funny to me that a bunch of sixteen year olds are walking around murdering people and sacrificing themselves for love and martyrdom and the Greater Good and i’m sitting here doing calculus like “yes this is relatable i too hold my enemy at sword point and would be easily able to knock out a man three feet taller than me” whereas in reality i can’t win an arm wrestling match and i leave the house once every three months
