every narrator is unreliable bc ontological truth is non-existent and therefore unattainable
Entering my Henry Winter era (I have constant migraines and I want to commit crimes)
Damnation by Clara
depraved and withered. deprived and starved. they watch as i wallow in my despair in agony. they do not deny my suffering, simply ignoring it. the hatred, the tension. it’s all become too much for my tortured soul. wretched, corrupt, wicked. dark, evil, ornery. all my souls passions received in damnation.
Been thinking about another William Faulkner quote lately:
“Read, read, read. Read everything — trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You’ll absorb it.
Then write. If it’s good, you’ll find out. If it’s not, throw it out of the window.”
A lot of my writing is about to be thrown out the window.
I think we should talk more about the fact that Henry is basically the personification of the "beauty is terror" quote – hence, the concept of the Sublime. Richard found him to be the most beautiful out of the whole group – not in the in the literal sense, obviously, but in the sense that Henry was the one he looked up to, admired and eventually idolized the most out of them. Even after the murder and all that happened afterwards because of him, after finding out how terrifying he could actually be, Richard still couldn't let go of his initial impression of him, and kept on thinking fondly of him despite everything he'd done – and so did all the others. Henry kept them all together, then wronged them so many times, and in the end he still left them all with that lingering ghost of him they were never able to get rid of.
the most fun a girl can have is finding parallels, noticing patterns, making connections, contemplating
Lacrimosa, 2020 | Nicola Samori Oil on onyx and Trani stone
when Charles Bukowski wrote— “ i often carry things to read / so that i will not have to look at / the people. ” i felt that.
Perhaps I romanticize this state of loneliness so much that it becomes too beautiful.
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