Vsevolod Garshin was XIX century Russian short stories author. He committed suicide when he was 33 years old, so he did not leave voluminous work, but the stories he did write are amazing piece of XIX literature. This is his portrait done by Ilya Repin.
Maybe this is just shyness but it’s never been that before and it’s the loudest kind of quiet ever put on trial and the jury’s been out for a while, now.
I worked out today quite how much money I’m going to owe when I leave university and I’m embarrassed that I ever thought five years of reading poetry and drinking tea in graveyards could be worth that much.
Keep having horrible dreams about passive aggressive texts and people I love being mostly disinterested but also subtly mocking when I want to move to South America and my friends’ mothers living in my student flat, sleeping in my bed, waiting all summer for me to get back so they can berate me for being gone so long when they need my help.
The Anti-Flirt Club was an American club active in Washington, D.C., during the early 1920s. The purpose of the club was to protect young women and girls who received unwelcome attention from men in automobiles and on street corners. The Anti-Flirt Club launched an ‘Anti-Flirt’ week, which began on March 4, 1923
I want to still love Tumblr but my relationship with my body and my relationship with my own self-worth and my relationship with the entire fucking universe pretty much means that everything I see on here either makes me feel bad about myself or feel bad about the fact that I feel bad about myself.
I went to a food thing and they gave us forks the length of my armspan and filled the room with “bacon smoke” and we had to wear blindfolds and we ate salmon that had been raised on classical music and it’s probably not okay that I would rather eat an uncultured salmon but I would.
I also sent a Moomin to the Hague today and discovered I’m allergic to sheep. What if they blow up the Moomin thinking it’s a bomb? What if I really wanted to be a shepherdess?
The drunkenness of things being various.
My mother is considering buying a farmhouse in Slovakia with its own woodland, vineyard and pigsty. It costs less than the average second hand BMW.
This is not a normal midlife crisis.
For any number of reasons pertaining to the Brian Jonestown Massacre and my local bakery and blepharitis and my sibling and the Venus de Milo I have decided to stop drinking for July, and this has meant that my tolerance for people asking how I am has hit an all time low.
If you bail water out of a sinking ship for long enough, eventually the passengers are going to decide you’re the one who sank it.
It’s been occurring to me
That I’d like to hang out with you
For my whole life
Alain de Botton claimed that Proust said that “One cannot read a novel without ascribing to the heroine the traits of the one we love” but I’ve read a lot of Proust and I think I’d remember this because it’s brilliant and I can’t find a source. I think Alain de Botton is a liar.
I always used to want to be written about and then I wanted to be written about and to be the villain and now I think I just want to be loved by someone who reads anything at all other than the sports pages.
Accidentally ate most of a scotch bonnet chilli and had a quasi-religious experience trying to quench the fire.