Classical Literature - Blog Posts

𝑇𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝐴 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝑎 𝑏𝑎𝑠𝑘𝑒𝑡 𝑠𝘩𝑒’𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑑. 𝑃𝑢𝑟𝑒-𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟, 𝐻𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑠𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠, 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟.

𝑇𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑎 𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑛, 𝑠𝑜 𝑏𝑜𝑙𝑑, 𝑊𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝑎 𝑏𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑛 𝘩𝑎𝑛𝑑, 𝑎 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑔𝑜𝑙𝑑. 𝐻𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑠 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑐𝘩 𝑡𝑜 𝘩𝑒𝑙𝑝 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑜𝑟, 𝐴 𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑜’𝑠 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑡, 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒.

—A lady and her quill, Courage Worn in Scarlet and Green

“𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝐺𝑟𝑦𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑟, 𝑊𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑡 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡, 𝑇𝘩𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝘩𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑦, 𝑆𝑒𝑡 𝐺𝑟𝑦𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡;

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

"𝐽𝑒 𝑡’𝑎𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝐴𝑢𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑑’ℎ𝑢𝑖. 𝐶𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑖𝑟. 𝐷𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛. 𝑃𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠".

—Michelle Hodkin,The Retribution of Mara Dyer (the third book).

“She was still a girl, a slight lovely girl who lay in bed and ate chocolates, a girl whose hair smelled like hyacinth and whose white scarves fluttered jauntily in the breeze; a girl as bewitching, and clever, as any girl who ever lived.”

― Donna Tartt, The Secret History

𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘴, 𝘰'𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘈 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘯, 𝘢 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳, 𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱, 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.

—Unknown author, The Last Unicorn (inspired by Peter S. Beagle’s novel)

𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔞 𝔯𝔲𝔩𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔴 𝔦𝔰 𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔫, 𝔰𝔪𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔬𝔦𝔩 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔇𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔡'𝔰 𝔟𝔬𝔶, 𝔬𝔥 𝔩𝔢𝔦-𝔬𝔥 𝔩𝔞𝔦-𝔬𝔥 𝔏𝔬𝔯𝔡 ⋆｡˚♬ﾟ. ㅤ

Golden child, Lion boy; Tell me what it's like to conquer. Fearless child, Broken boy; Tell me what it's like to burn.

—oh darling, even Rome fell // p.s.

"All I am is literature and I am not willing or able to be anything else"

—Franz Kafka

Dear Milena, I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say: “Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow”. Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don’t have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much.

— Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

If I cannot love you openly like I wish, if I cannot hold your hand when walking Or wrap you in my arms late at night. Then I will love you silently, in my mind and behind closed eyes For there, there is no rejection or heartbreak. And surely it is better to love silently than to not love at all?

—unknown

Lately I've been obsessed with old cinema.

I swear I don't lack skills to communicate, I'm simply too tired to engage..

Guys, I'm really proud of this blog and really love you all. Your likes and re-blogs means a lot to me. 💗 ₊˚⊹

—Donna Tartt, The Secret History

Today, I encountered a little black girl who looked frail and seemed timid, and it nearly brought me to tears. There was something in her eyes, a glint of quiet pain, of low self-esteem. She seemed afraid to speak, to take up space, to simply exist in the fullness of who she is. And in that moment, my mind instantly went to my younger sister. And of course, to my younger self. I see so much of myself in my little sister. I love her with everything in me, and I would do whatever it takes to shield her from the cruelty of the world—from my father's rage, from society’s judgment, from the harshness I was never protected from. I couldn’t save my younger self from all the things that broke me. The things that silenced me, made me shrink, made me feel like I wasn’t enough. So when I see little girls like that—like her—I feel this deep, aching need to protect them. I glanced at her multiple times today, and she might’ve thought I was judging her. I wish I could’ve told her I wasn’t. That I cared. That in a world where others might overlook her or treat her like she’s invisible, I see her. I would be there for her. But I couldn’t say it. Because that would've scared her off. I hope I see her again. Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t this sensitive. I wish I could just numb myself just a little, so I wouldn’t have to feel so deeply all the time. But here I am, writing this with tears in my eyes. Empathy is starting to feel like a curse to me.

—A lady and Her Quill, Journal of wandering thoughts.

Sometimes I wonder if people even realize how cruel they can be without saying a word. The way they look at me—cold, dismissive, like I’m something to laugh at or pity. It’s not always about what they say; sometimes it’s just the way they carry themselves around me, like I’m less. I feel overlooked all the time, like I’m just floating in the background, waiting for someone to actually see me. And I hate how much I want to be seen, especially by him. I hate how I catch myself hoping for even a glance from him. It makes me feel pathetic, like I’m betraying myself just to feel worthy for a moment. These past few days, I’ve been so angry. Just simmering beneath the surface. I keep snapping in my head, getting irritated at everything. I’m starting to feel like the angry little girl I worked so hard to bury, the one who, for years, carried the weight of her father’s rage. I hate how deeply I feel things, how sensitive I am. Lately, I’ve been drowning. Not in a river, but under the weight of never feeling satisfied with life.

—A lady and Her Quill, Letters to Dead Children: Ophelia's Journal Entries

— Albert Camus

"People. People. Endless noise. And I am so tired. And I would like to sleep under trees; red ones, blue ones, swirling passionate ones"

― Alfred Stieglitz, My Faraway One: Selected Letters of Georgia O'Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz