Apparently all it takes to change my mind about independence is an hour long tutorial about modernist literature and a supervision about poetic silence.
I think being back in Scotland changes things a lot.
Woman reading. New York Public Library, 1944.
“[His] library was a fine dark place bricked with books, so anything could happen there and always did. All you had to do was pull a book from the shelf and open it and suddenly the darkness was not so dark anymore.” ― Ray Bradbury, Farewell Summer
Had a dream I went to see Kate Bush play at the Apollo and met a girl from school in the bathroom who was weeping over her boyfriend’s inexpensive gift and its inexpensiveness and I had to sit there for what I would guesstimate to be three quarters of an hour and missed everything. When I came back out, Kate had finished her set and wasn’t performing an encore.
I would like to say that this suggests I feel limited by other people’s problems, but I think it’s probably more to do with the fact that I’m practically prostate with grief that Kate’s residency a mile from my house is almost over and I will probably never see her play in my whole life.
"The only recorded instance of Philip Larkin shedding tears was in March 1979. His secretary Betty Mackereth remembers how, “He just stood at the window of his office, looking out, and said: ‘I mowed the lawn last night; and I killed the hedgehog.’ And tears rolled down his face.” The hedgehog had been a frequent visitor to his garden. The next day he wrote a poem about the incident, as if the animal shared his humanity. It is sobering to think of the master of poetic gloom as a lachrymose Mr Tiggy-Winkle."
Living alone means red wine and Big Sad Thoughts about World War One and mange tout for supper with horrible romantic comedies that mean nothing to me because life is fundamentally NOT LIKE THAT and I’m done with all my run on sentences because they’re better as spiel to other people than private inner monologues.
Every time somewhere I love changes I feel like I’ve lost a tiny part of my world and that world is shrinking shrinking shrinking.
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