#James joyce love letters
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the first mistake is to underestimate how impossibly horny our ancestors were. yes, even a hundred years ago.
#go read a james joyce love letter#that man wrote nastier more fetishy letters to his wife than i've ever seen on tumblr
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dreaming of that james joyce type lust
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Letters to Nora
8 December 1909: 44 Fontenoy Street, Dublin
My sweet little whorish Nora,
I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck up in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue come bursting out through your lips and if I gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.
You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over me with a whore’s glow in your slumbrous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover’s fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometime too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your hot drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling’s cunt. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.
Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.
JIM
*
16 December 1909: 44 Fontenoy Street, Dublin
My sweet darling girl,
At last you write to me! You must have given that naughty little cunt of yours a most ferocious frigging to write me such a disjointed letter. As for me, darling, I am so played out that you would have to lick me for a good hour before I could get a horn stiff enough even to put into you, to say nothing of blocking you. I have done so much and so often that I am afraid to look to see how that thing I had is after all I have done to myself. Darling, please don’t fuck me too much when I go back. Fuck all you can out of me for the first night or so but make me get myself cured. The fucking must all be done by you, darling, as I am so soft and small now that no girl in Europe except yourself would waste her time trying the job. Fuck me, darling, in as many ways as your lust will suggest. Fuck me dressed in your full outdoor costume with your hat and veil on, your face flushed with the cold and wind and rain and your boots muddy, either straddling across my legs when I am sitting in a chair and riding me up and down with the frills of your drawers showing and my cock sticking up stiff in your cunt or riding me over the back of the sofa. Fuck me naked with your hat and stockings on only flat on the floor with a crimson flower in your hole behind, riding me like a man with your thighs between mine and your rump very fat. Fuck me in your dressing gown (I hope you have that nice one) with nothing on under it, opening it suddenly and showing me your belly and thighs and back and pulling me on top of you on the kitchen table. Fuck me into you arseways, lying on your face on the bed, your hair flying loose naked but with a lovely scented pair of pink drawers opened shamelessly behind and half slipping down over your peeping bum. Fuck me if you can squatting in the closet, with your clothes up, grunting like a young sow doing her dung, and a big fat dirty snaking thing coming slowly out of your backside. Fuck me on the stairs in the dark, like a nursery-maid fucking her soldier, unbuttoning his trousers gently and slipping her hand into his fly and fiddling with his shirt and feeling it getting wet and then pulling it gently up and fiddling with his two bursting balls and at last pulling out boldly the mickey she loves to handle and frigging it for him softly, murmuring into his ear dirty words and dirty stories that other girls told her and dirty things she said, and all the time pissing her drawers with pleasure and letting off soft warm quiet little farts behind until her own girlish cockey is as stiff as his and suddenly sticking him up in her and riding him.
Basta! Basta per Dio!
I have come now and the foolery is over. Now for your questions!
We are not open yet. I send you some posters. We hope to open on the 20th or 21st. Count 14 days from that and 3 1/2 days for the voyage and I am in Trieste.
Get ready. Put some warm-brown-linoleum on the kitchen and hang a pair of red common curtains on the windows at night. Get some kind of a cheap common comfortable armchair for your lazy lover. Do this above all, darling, as I shall not quit the kitchen for a whole week after I arrive, reading, lolling, smoking, and watching you get ready the meals and talking, talking, talking, talking to you. O how supremely happy I shall be! God in heaven, I shall be happy there! I figlioli, il fuoco, una bona mangiata, un caffe nero, un Brasil, il Piccolo della Sera, e Nora, Nora mia, Norina, Noretta, Norella, Noruccia ecc ecc…
Eva and Eileen must sleep together. Get some place for Georgie. I wish Nora and I had two beds for night-work. I am keeping and shall keep my promise, love. Time fly on, fly on quickly! I want to go back to my love, my life, my star, my little strange-eyed Ireland!
A hundred thousand kisses, darling!
JIM
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Completely forgot about this! 🤭
Skip ahead to 1:01:04 and, yes, headphones in.
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What if I read Ulysses but like, as a joke
#james joyce#Ulysses#im convinced no one has actually read that book for real#its a big inside joke#anyways i fucking love portrait of the artist and all those fart fucking letters so idk maybe ill like it#books#bookblr#books and reading
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No human being has ever stood so close to my soul as you stand.
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"I love you deeply and truly, Nora. I feel worthy of you now. There is not a particle of my love that is not yours. In spite of these things which blacken my mind against you I think of you always at your best... Nora, I love you. I cannot live without you. I would like to give you everything that is mine, any knowledge I have (little as it is), any emotions I myself feel or have felt, any likes or dislikes I have, any hopes I have or remorse. I would like to go through life side by side with you, telling you more and more until we grew to be one being together until the hour should come for us to die. Even now the tears rush to my eyes and sobs choke my throat as I write this. Nora, we have only one short life in which to live. O my darling, be only a little kinder to me, bear with me a little even if I am inconsiderate and unmanageable and believe me we will be happy together. Let me love you in my own way. Let me have your heart close to mine to hear every throb of my life, every sorrow, every joy."
James Joyce, letter to his partner Nora Barnacle (1909)
via themarginalian.org
#this is why my standards are so high dammit#james joyce#love letters#nora barnacle#literature#literature quotes#quotes#modernism#modernist literature#letters#excerpts#irish literature
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"My sweet little whorish Nora... You had an arse full of farts that night, darling... big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole... I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also. Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little f*ckbird!"
Source:
#i heard about this letter today and it absolutely killed me#such a love of farts#something my partner would never say#poor lad is woken up by a one clap most days#personal#james joyce#nora barnacle
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I Still Love Him Song By Lana Del Rey
James Joyce, From A Letter To Nora Barnacle Written C. August 1904
Sorcery Of Thorns By Margaret Rogerson
#it's just a ramdom text post#dailyquotes#dark academia#light academia#cottage core#dark acadamia aesthetic#dark fantasy#excerpts#fragments#poetry#books & libraries#romanticism#romantic literature#romatic academia#classic lit#classic aesthetic#classic academia#choatic academia quotes#choatic academia#quotes#writing#lana del rey#james joyce#margaret rogerson#spilled love#spilled thoughts#spilled words#spilled ink#books and writing#txt post
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"(Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom.)"
47/80
#ulyssesin80#ulysses80#james joyce#summer reading#reading challenge#my photography#wordswag#love letters
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oooh please tell us what writing rules are garbage I would love to hear more
it's not that they're garbage, which isn't what i said, just that they annoy me and even then what annoys me is not the "rules" themselves (because i do believe they can be useful depending on what you're writing) but when some of them are put out as the only way to write something as if storytelling is a one-size fits all approach, as if you can reduce the millenia-long history of literature into a fail-proof formula that will work for all writing across all cultures with no room for experimentation.
i think there are as many ways to tell a story as there are stories and how you tell something and the kind of language you use will vary depending on what language actually means to you as a writer. hemingway and faulkner both famously took digs at each other for their styles (even though i think there was a lot of admiration between them) but they are also two very different writers with two completely different approaches to language and how they use that language to say the things they want to say: neither is inherently better, or more right, than the other--their approaches were just right for them; if faulkner wanted to write using the "older, simpler, better" words hemingway loved, he would have. if james joyce wanted to depict dublin the way dickens depicted london, he would have done so. but they didn't.
someone once posted an excellent breakdown by jeff vandermeer of the different writing styles employed by different authors which i was silly enough not to save at the time, but in it he gives an overview of the structure of their sentences, and how complicated or "rich" the language is, without pitting one style against the other. and to be honest, i think writing advice that encourages you to examine and look at that relationship with language, and what it holds for you (and others) and why, is probably more helpful than blanket statements like "stay away from ambiguity" or "avoid long sentences" because neither of those actually mean anything--a sentence is a vessel but it's also a tool, like a hoghair brush or a palette knife; the value of its impact is not an essence that exists in and of itself, but entirely dependent on how you use it, otherwise all literature would just read the same way.
strict adherence to a particular form or structure within a language does not automatically make for better writing, especially not when so much literature actually consists of, and is built from, works and authors actively rebelling against those same traditional forms and structures (but which is also not to say that those forms and structures are inherently useless, either). you can say that long sentences "risk distraction" or are "ineffective" but then where does that leave someone like laszlo krasznahorkai, whose prose runs on like some kind of breathless, hypnotic incantantion for 20, 30 pages without a single full stop in sight? or a book like solar bones by mike mccormack which is made up of a single sentence going on for 200 pages? i'm not saying long sentences can't be boring or tedious, but in all honesty so can short sentences--so can any writing that follows the "rules" to the letter. if something is poorly written, the "rules" matter very little; if it's well written, they matter even less.
all that said, telling people to "avoid long sentences" is not inherently a bad thing because i think the core of it is wanting to ensure your writing remains clear, which is a fair point--but it's an issue, to me at least, when it turns into one of those dictums or pronouncements that actively narrows the potential range language can actually have. clarity is not always about length, or whether or not you cull all of your run-on lines--mihail sebastian drew a very nice distinction in one of his novels when he said "[is] there’s a single way of being clear? A notary can be clear, or a poet, but they don’t seem to me the same thing". a long sentence can be clear, but its clarity exists on different terms to a sentence that is five words long, because its relationship to its content is different. and at the end of the day, that relationship is really what it's about for me and it's distinct to each work and its author.
writers use the language and form they use that best allows them to say what they want to say. no one in their right mind is going to dismiss zadie smith for not writing like angela carter or angela carter for not writing like hemingway or hemingway for not writing like beckett or beckett for not writing like mallarmé. robert frost and sara teasdale were no more correct than the beatniks were. i love pared down, beautifully concise prose, but i also adore books that relish in language and all the various, multi-coloured layers of it, books that eschew (traditional) plot and books that question their own form and the reality of that form, and books that tell a story as straightforwardly as possible.
to be honest i think one of the most formative things i came across, years ago now, was this piece by gary provost, which really sums up the whole notion of "writing rules" for me:
this is not about do's or dont's. it even breaks the first writing rule i learnt in school ("never begin a sentence with 'And'"). but what it does is center an intimate understanding of language, where it can go and how it can get there, and what you want that to do. that's where it's at for me!
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I remember a while ago Steve wasn’t letting go of hope for his Mom showing up because he said she’s always late. Does he hit a point after that where he starts to admit maybe she isn’t coming? How does Eddie handle it?
@mcneen asked: Was there ever any further discussion between Steve and Eddie when Steve’s Mom didn’t show up, and Steve was like “oh she’s going to be late, she’s always been late”? I love love this series and check for more updates every day, thank you so much for writing it!
I’m going to kill two birds with one stone here since these two are asking for similar things
—
He always knew that she wasn’t coming.
He has known it every time he’s extended an olive branch just to watch it wilt and rot, and he knows that his friends and family think that he’s in denial about it. He knows that they have worriedly whispered conversations about him, but they don’t get it.
Yeah, it would be less heartbreaking to just give up but it wouldn’t be easier.
The Buckley’s are amazing parents that still send care packages to their daughter and call her every day for a month leading up to her birthday. Wayne took in his nephew when he didn’t have to and stood in defense of him against an entire town. Joyce – Jesus, Joyce Byers went to hell and back for her son. Hopper, Claudia, Sue, Karen… they’re all amazing parents, and you know what?
His mom was amazing once too.
And he knows. He knows. He knows. He knows how untrue that statement really is. He’s been in therapy long enough to know that he had a bad childhood and his parents were neglectful, but he cannot rectify that with the little boy inside him that loves his mom to pieces.
In the same way that he will always be sixteen years old and scared of the dead girl in his pool, he will always be small, waiting by the door for a mother that always eventually came home. Though, he knows.
He knows that seasons change and old injuries never heal quite right, and it never really mattered if his mother came home because she was always leaving but… But she was never outright cruel.
His father was a mean man that demanded perfection and belittled anything less than that. He was a unhappy man that fostered an atmosphere so hostile that his only son barely dared to breathe in his presence, and his mom. Well, it wasn’t her fault that she didn’t know how to be a mother.
But she was there. Sometimes as the silent observer, sometimes disinterested, but always the one to say, “Enough.”
“Enough,” she said after Barb’s disappearance, after the phone call from the police, after the lecture that turned physical. She stood between them with her hand pressed against her father’s chest and said, “That’s enough. Steven, go to your room.”
“Enough,” she said after the final rejection letter, after the job at his dad’s company was rescinded, after he was told to get a job or get out. “Enough, James. What is all this yelling going to do? It will not get him into college.”
“Enough,” she said after Steve stood his ground and took back nothing when he told them that Eddie was not just a friend, that he loved him and for the first time ever, it felt like someone loved him back. After the fighting, and the yelling, and being kicked out, she finally uttered, “Enough.”
About insurance.
His father stripped him line by line of everything he has always known, but insurance was where his mother drew the line. They all new that he would never be able to afford his medication without it and, “God forbid, he have a seizure and get another kid killed, Jay.”
The last conversation Steve had with his mother was at his father’s funeral. He said she looked well given the circumstances and she said that he should really do something about all that gray hair.
So, no. He’s not expecting her to show up. He never really is, but he wants it. He wants it so bad and it all kinda comes crashing down around him one evening after Eddie casually mentions that Wayne called earlier, “He said you’re getting better at speaking on camera.”
“What?”
Eddie explains that Wayne caught Steve’s interview about his YouTube math tutorials going viral. Steve asks how a man living in Florida manages to watch a local news broadcast from Illinois, and Eddie says that he looked it up online. Steve asks, “Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s proud of you,” Eddie says simply.
Something just cracks and the next thing either of them knows, Steve is crying. It’s kinda funny how wide Eddie’s eyes go, but Steve can’t even laugh about it because he feels like he’s going to drown inside himself.
It takes time and a lot of coaxing for Steve to get to a point where he tell Eddie that he’s sad. He just doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to do to make her want to see him. He doesn’t know what he did that was so wrong that she can’t forgive him and why – “Why can’t she just love me?”
Eddie tells him firmly, “Stevie, baby. I want you to listen very carefully to me, okay? I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life, okay?”
Steve nods.
“You did nothing wrong,” He says, and Steve just – he can’t believe it. He can’t believe that because then there’s nothing he can do to fix it and he – “Tell me this, Steve. Tell me what Erica Sinclair – Lady Applejack herself. Tell me what she has to do to make you consider cutting contact with her? What’s the least she’d have to do? Think about it an give me an answer, sweetheart.”
Steve things about it and eventually settles on, “Open the Upside Down on purpose.”
“Have you even opened a portal to a hell dimension on purpose then, babe?”
“Ed-“
“No, I want an answer,” Eddie says. “Have you ever purposely ripped a hole in the space-time continuum to an alternate reality?”
“No.”
“You ever do something worse than that?”
“I- no? Eddie-“
“Then it sounds like the problem is with your mom and not you,” He answers. “It sounds like she needs to get over her own fucking issues, and I know. I know that fucking sucks, Steve, but you cannot spend the rest of your life blaming yourself for her unwillingness to grow as a person.”
Eddie wipes the tears from his face and kiss the tip of his nose, and Steve admits, “I’m still sad.”
“I know, baby,” Eddie tells him. “That’s okay.”
Steve doesn’t know how much time lingers between them in silence, just that he’s tired the way he always is after he cries a lot. He’s about to tell him that he’s going to go to bed when Eddie states, “Joyce still lives in Hawkins, right? I’m gonna call her and see if she’ll beat your mom up.”
#this is rambly and I don’t even know if it makes sense#I do know that Joyce Byers would fight Steve’s mom on his behalf#also I went with Erica because I think Dustin is more like a little brother to Steve and he would see Erica as more of his kid#eddie munson tiktok saga#steve harrington#eddie munson
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April 9, 2024: Physical Therapy, Franny Choi
Physical Therapy
Franny Choi
Ask, first, what your smallest
body parts require to sing again:
coconut oil for your hair’s
dry ends, camphor for the
earlobes, rosehip kneaded into
fingertips with fingertips.
Grapeseed will feed most
hungers of the skin. But
if even your bones cry
January, dip your sharpest
knife in a jar of raw honey.
Lather it on your thighs,
making circles, making certain
not to confuse this ache for that
other, the one that keeps
pulling you to the earth, the one
question you still can’t say out loud.
Recite instead the names of trees:
sumac, sweet birch, slippery elm.
Take your palm to the wild place
under your chin and count:
vein, artery, chokecherry,
weeping willow, until your
xacto knife pulse slows, holds. Let
your mouth fill with gold, almonds,
zinneas. Then: soften.
--
In an abecedarian poem, each line begins with successive letters of the alphabet.
Also:
+ VI. Wisdom: The Voice of God, Mary Karr
+ Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell, Marty McConnell
+ Heartbeats, Melvin Dixon
More by Franny Choi:
+ Catastrophe Is Next to Godliness
+ The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On
Today in:
2023: Come Quickly, Izumi Shikibu
2022: Heretic That I Am, Tomás Q. Morín
2021: The World Has Need of You, Ellen Bass
2020: Annus Mirabilis, R. A. Villanueva
2019: This Page Ripped Out and Rolled into a Ball, Brendan Constantine
2018: Winter Stars, Larry Levis
2017: In That Other Fantasy Where We Live Forever, Wanda Coleman
2016: The cat’s song, Marge Piercy
2015: The Embrace, Mark Doty
2014: No. 6, Charles Bukowski
2013: A Schoolroom in Haiti, Kenneth Koch
2012: Track 5: Summertime, Jericho Brown
2011: Death, Is All, Ana Božičević
2010: Heaven, William Heyen
2009: April in Maine, May Sarton
2008: Making Love to Myself, James L. White
2007: Publication Date, Franz Wright
2006: Living in the Body, Joyce Sutphen
2005: Aberration (The Hubble Space Telescope before repair), Rebecca Elson
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OH you rb'ed the ship ask thing too omg PLEASE I NEED TO KNOW #2 HOW LOUMAND'S LOVE LETTERS LOOK LIKE i know we already talked about it but pretty please can I get an example of what Armand might write to him 🥺
Anything for you! 🥹
If I calculated right LOL it's been over a year now since I opened my mouth and said Armand and Louis's love letters would 100% be of the James Joyce variety--depraved and filthy in a way that's almost wholesome in their extreme intimacy. And I stand by that. And I absolutely looked up James Joyce's love letters to his wife to serve as inspiration for this, because this level of florid is beyond my natural limits.
Without further ado, from Armand's hand...
My darling beloved: your last letter has made a beast of me. You have me so tightly wound--for three nights in a row, I have ended up prowling the docks the docks for any dark-haired, light-eyed young man I could find. And how I take them, Louis! Violently against the pier, my fangs in their veins, their hard cocks pressing into my stomach while I take all they have to give. And I imagine it is you. Your blood on my lips, your cum desecrating my silk shirt. How I envy Lestat in that he was fortunate enough to experience your mortal spill, even if it were just the once! I would have had it burning from the source or licked cold off the ground like a starving creature. Just to carry your aching wretchedness inside of me. I would have you too, my greedy whorish love! I would have your glorious essence in my mouth, my body, staining the core of me for all eternity.
Well, that was a creative exercise lmao. Always remember: Armand may look like an angel, but he talks like a thug. ♥️ (I took liberties with Lestat getting Louis off before he turned him just for you and Reb, babe 🫶🏼).
#i hope you like it babe lmao even if it makes you laugh like if you're mortified imagine how i feel#whorish was a bit too far but ykw i also stand by it#i'll try and catch up on the rest tomorrow my loves <33333#you ask and hekate answers#armand/louis#vc
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pick a card– which book speaks to your soul?
You read something which you thought only happened to you, and you discover that it happened 100 years ago to Dostoyevsky. This is a very great liberation for the suffering, struggling person, who always thinks that he is alone. This is why art is important.
—Conversations with James Baldwin.
this is my love letter to all the bookworms in the tarot community— pick a pile & i'll give you a list of genres + book suggestions carrying important messages to you.
I. THE FIRST
To the daydreamers and the escapists; to the ones that need to rest before following what you need follow.
RELEVANT GENRES & CONCEPTS– fiction in general; romance; fantasy; fairytale; poetry; ‘happy ever after’ endings; hopeful endings; fantasy; magic; dreamy.
AUTHORS – Ursula K. Le Guin; Louise Gluck; Mary Oliver; Jane Austen.
BOOKS FOR YOU–
‘The Paper Garden: An Artist Begins Her Life’s Work at 72 – Molly Peacock'
‘Good Bones – Maggie Smith’
‘If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho – Translation by Anne Carson’
‘Owls and Other Fantasies – Mary Oliver’
‘Dog Songs – Mary Oliver’
‘Emma – Jane Austen’
‘Howl’s Moving Castle – Diana Wynne Jones’
‘The Little Prince – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’
‘Death Comes for the Archbishop – Willa Cather’
‘Sonnets from the Portuguese – Elizabeth Barrett Browning’
‘The Hawk and the Dove – Penelope Wilcock’
‘The Secret Life of the Lonely Doll: The Search for Dare Wright’
‘The Ink Dark Moon – Ono no Komachi & Izumi Shikibu’
‘Alice in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll’
‘The Letters of Vita Sackville-West and Virginia Woolf’
‘Little Women – Louisa May Alcott’
‘Anne of Green Gables – L.M. Montgomery’
‘Kissing the Witch: Old Tales in New Skins – Emma Donoghue’
II. THE SECOND
For the ones that carry the ache to learn and know everything; to the ones bored with life's commodities & seriousness. For the ones that question everything around them – as they should do.
You do not need to fit in. Don't change yourself for other people. If they want to see you this way, then become the proud witch in the edge of the woods.
RELEVANT GENRES & CONCEPTS– books on 'niche' knowledge; science; philosophy; true crime; drama; scandalous romances; adventure, magical realism; YA thriller & horror; comedy & sardonic comedy; ‘controversial’/'weird' books.
AUTHORS– Carmen Maria Machado, Kate Moore, Grady Hendrix.
BOOKS FOR YOU–
‘My Sister, The Serial Killer – Oyinkan Braithwaite'
‘The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales – Oliver Sacks'
‘St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves – Karen Russell'
‘Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife – Mary Roach’
‘The Hitchhiker Guide to Galaxy – Douglas Adams'
‘Inferno – Dante Alighieri'
'Magic for Beginners – Kelly Link'
‘Lace Bone Beast: Poems & Other Fairytales for Wicked Girls – N.L. Shompole'
‘Severed: A History of Heads Lost and Heads Found – Frances Larson’
'The Woman They Could Not Silence – Kate Moore'
‘The Dictionary of Lost Words – Pip Williams'
‘She Kills Me: The True Stories of History’s Deadliest Women – Jennifer Wright’
‘Anatomy: A Love Story – Dana Schwartz'
‘Pretty Dead Queens – Alexa Donne'
‘I’m Glad My Mom Died – Jennette McCurdy'
'Rabid: A Cultural History of the World's Most Diabolical Virus – Bill Wasik'
‘Chilling Adventures of Sabrina – Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa’
III. THE THIRD
You need to put your sadness somewhere. If you can't, remember that someone has done it before – and transformed it into a story. Let the words you'll read be the resting place for whatever you're feeling right now; let yourself remember that not even your pain is lonely in this world.
RELEVANT GENRES AND CONCEPTS— poetry; gothic horror; thrillers; murder mysteries; tragedies; cathartic stories; biographies.
AUTHORS– Shirley Jackson, Osamu Dazai, Clarice Lispector, Sylvia Plath.
BOOKS FOR YOU—
'The Year of Magical Thinking – Joan Didion'
‘The Dead – James Joyce'
‘What The Living Do – Marie Howe'
‘The Hour of the Star – Clarice Lispector'
‘Why This World: A Biography of Clarice Lispector’
‘Some of Us Did Not Die – June Jordan'
Somewhere Towards the End – Diana Athill'
‘We Have Always Lived in The Castle – Shirley Jackson'
'Heaven: A Novel – Mieko Kawakami'
'Journal of a Solitude – May Sarton'
'Jane Eyre – Charlotte Bronte'
'Grief is the Thing with Feathers – Max Porter'
‘Carrie – Stephen King'
'Of Dogs and Walls – Yuko Tsushima'
'Frankenstein – Mary Shelley'
'The Stepping Off Place – Cameron Kelly'
'Letters to Milena – Franz Kafka'
‘Beloved – Toni Morrison'
#pac#pick a card#pick a card reading#pick a pile#pick a pile reading#pick a deck#tarot reading#tarot#tarot reader#cartomancy#divination#witchblr#witchcraft#witch#tarotblr#tarotdaily#intuitive#tarot community#tarot cards#tarotonline#free tarot readings
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