Over The Moon With The Joy Of Autumn And Old Books Lying On My Desk.

Ig: pascalfrancesca_

she is too fond of books, and it turned her brain

Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming....

Oscar Wilde, 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑃𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝐷𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑎𝑛 𝐺𝑟𝑎𝑦

dark academia in 2021:

dark academia pinterest boards, binders stuffed with neatly written notes, early mornings spent analysing poetry, hot tea for cold rainy nights, studying hard, but not too hard, good grades and well-written essays, piles upon piles of books from that amazon sale, zero procrastination, customising your ios 14 layout based on your favourite books, leather-bound journals filled with messy scribbles, zero missing google classroom assignments, insightful debates about the latest government policies, scented candles, iced coffee for hot summer days, more scented candles, passionately researching about your favourite show or book.

Paul Éluard, Victory of Guernica (Trans. by Wallace Fowlie)

I started reading The Secret History because I fell into the trap that is dark academia (a very good trap indeed), but I had actually heard of the it before and only by seeing the cover of the book had I recalled one of the most poignant memories of my recent life.

Some moons ago, past midnight on a September evening, I was sitting on the floor in the bedroom of a boy I so greatly admired. He sat on the end of his bed with his head between his knees and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He was recovering from one too many drinks, as a few hours prior, my friend and I were helping him get home from a party and forcing him to drink water so he wouldn’t die from alcohol poisoning. She had already left, leaving the two of us alone, him sobering up. From his phone speakers, classical music played, and he spoke to me about songs I would like, as well as book recommendations. He then said something about the book he was reading at the time, and that I’d like it very much, but I couldn’t make out who the author nor the title from what he was saying as he had his head between his knees. Nor could I pay proper attention because although I don’t drink, I was in a drunken stupor of being alone in his presence.

It was some moments later that he shuffled over and made a gesture for me to sit next to him. And so I did, and he wrapped his blanket around the two of us and rested his head on my left shoulder. I don’t remember if either of us had said a word, but the music kept playing. Two pieces remain with me: Gymnopédie No. 1 by Erik Satie, and Song on the Beach by Arcade Fire. I almost cried because of how truly happy I felt.

Nothing more happened between us that night. He fell asleep on my shoulder, and I had to go home. But before leaving I noticed that the book he was talking about was on his nightstand. A book none other than The Secret History by Donna Tartt. “… [A] group of clever, eccentric misfits at an elite New England college discover a way of thinking and living that is a world away from the humdrum existence of their contemporaries … ”

He was right. I did enjoy the book. As for him and I, that’s another story that I won’t delve into. It’s one that pertains more to tragedy than comedy.

subjects as dark academia aesthetics

english: knit turtlenecks, corduroy pants. going to stationery stores and buying ink. writing notes and penning stories in leather-bound notebooks. critiquing your friend’s essay as you walk hurriedly through a grove of oak trees in the rain on your way to class.

math: perpetually foggy glasses. biting your pencil eraser to focus when you’re stuck on a particularly difficult problem. taking notes and putting them into a worn binder, bursting with variegated papers. late night study sessions fueled by multiple cups of black tea.

chemistry: heavy old textbooks covered in post-it notes. empty beakers sitting in the windowsill, reflecting random patterns of light onto the classroom walls. a cozy striped sweater peeking out from underneath a pristine white lab coat. coffee from the local cafe, filled just to the brim with creamer - very precisely, a skill learned from hours spent measuring chemicals.

history: dark woolen coats, long socks hidden under plaid pants. old maps from all across the glove hung around the room. analyzing (and admiring!) prolific writing and pieces of art that have survived the test of time. long walks on cobblestone streets, stopping to read on the steps of a museum.

latin: sturdy leather backpacks with straps. stopping to explain the meaning of words and their roots, followed by looks of intrigue. writing latin sayings into tea-stained planners. sitting in a cafe, eating a macaron in a window booth and watching people walk by.

art: hair pulled back into a low bun, random strands poking out. hands always stained with paint, charcoal - the medium changes daily. sketching under a sycamore tree, its leaves slowly browning. standing in front of a painting in a museum, becoming lost in it, slowly pulled back in time into its story.

the day started out kind of nice

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