An Ode To Pools Of Moonlight

I’M REVIVING THIS SERIES!

Day 3 coming up quite soon!

Questions To Ask People You Like:

Favourite classical authors?

Favourite poem?

Favourite book?

Preferred writing utensil?

Favourite place?

Favourite memory?

Most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?

Favourite library?

Favourite flower?

Sense and Sensibility or Pride and Prejudice?

Favourite quote?

Favourite Latin phrase?

British or American spelling?

Favorite obscure fact?

Favorite historical figure?

Favorite romance novel?

Favorite big city?

Favorite small town?

Favorite constellation?

Favorite university?

Favorite British town?

Favorite obscure author?

Favorite fabric pattern?

Favorite song?

Story of their first love?

Ideal plans for tomorrow?

Favorite old French author?

Favorite turn of phrase?

Favorite capitol or city hall?

Favorite old building?

Favorite museum?

Favorite book store?

Favorite folk tale?

Favorite historical story?

Favorite historical battle?

Oxford or Cambridge?

Edinburgh or London?

Favorite Italian town?

Favorite palace or castle?

Favorite noble family?

Favorite royal family?

Favorite century?

Ever written a love letter?

Favorite weather?

Tea or coffee?

If your name was Adelia, which nickname would you choose, Addie or Delia?

Favorite Greek, Roman, or Norse myth?

Opinion on Oxford commas?

Favorite word in a foreign language?

Favorite English word?

Favorite historical time period?

Favorite song lyric?

Favorite things?

CAMILLA MACAULAY

Thank you.

Aveline

- Sylvia Plath, from 'Ariel'

If I Don’t Love You

If I don’t love you,

then why,

darling,

explain to me why,

do you look so gorgeous?

Violet light,

weaving itself through strands

of golden hair.

If you don’t love me,

then why am I the first person you look at

when you walk into the room?

Some sort of something

in your eyes

as they dart away from mine.

I forget to breathe.

I see you walk out,

pretending not to notice you.

Pretending not to notice

how your eyes flick to me as you sit

carelessly

with the sun and the blue sky.

I caution a glance

as I walk away.

I don’t love you?

I don’t love you.

P.S. Yes, this one’s about the academic rival.

Interviewer: What difference in usage would you point out in these three languages [Russian, English, French], these three instruments?

Nabokov: Naunces. If you take framboise in French, for example, it’s a scarlet color, a very red color. In English, the word raspberry is rather dull, with perhaps a little brown or violet. A rather cold color. In Russian it’s a burst of light, malinovoe; the word has associations of brilliance, of gaiety, of ringing bells. How can you translate that?

- Vladimir Nabokov, Think, Write, Speak: Uncollected Essays, Reviews, Interviews and Letters to the Editor. Bryan Boyd and Anastasia Tolstoy, Eds.

“𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵, 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴?”

-𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘬𝘰𝘸𝘴𝘬𝘪

Reblog this to prove your blog was made before the February 2022 tumblr resurgence

His pillow was wet with salty tears and his eyes were swollen from crying as he woke up. His chapped lips stung with the taste of saltwater. Diana called him.

“What time is it,” he asked, his voice cracking. He hoped she would think he was just tired. She did not.

“It’s just about 8 o’clock. What’s wrong?”

He didn’t say anything but simply hung up. He walked to the South Meadow again, slower than last time. He did not see Theo next to him. After a few minutes sitting at the bench next to the field, he heard a voice behind him.

“You’ll be late to chapel,” it said quietly, worried. Theo popped up in front of him. He tried his best to smile. Theo did not mask the concerned expression on his own face. He noticed a stray tear right under Alexander’s eye, and knelt down to wipe it away. The feeling of his hand on Alexander’s face made his skin tingle. He started to smile honestly. Theo sat down next to him quietly.

It started to rain, and Theo stood up from the bench.

“We’ll be late,” he repeated simply. Alexander walked behind him to chapel.

Your poets? Dead. Your history? Secret. Your darlings? Killed. You? Probably not straight