Forgotten Supernova by Tathya S is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at forgottensupernova.tumblr.com.
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Forgotten Supernova by Tathya S is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at forgottensupernova.tumblr.com.
“No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”
– Vladimir Nabokov
With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can’t start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It’s like quicksand… hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough, not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
Sylvia Plath (via thechocolatebrigade)
38 Burleigh Mansions, St Martins Lane, London W.C.2.
27 August 1924My dear Virginia,
Forgive the unconscionable delay in answering your charming letter and invitation. I have been boiled in a hell-broth, and on Saturday journeyed to Liverpool to place my mother in her transatlantic, with the confusion and scurry usual on such occasions, and the usual narrow escape from being carried off to America (or at least to Cobh) myself. In the tumult on the dock an impetuous lady of middle age, ‘seeing off’ a relative going to make his fortune in the New World, by way of the Steerage) stuck her umbrella in my eye, which is Black. I should love to visit you, seriously: the Prince of Bores to refresh his reputation: but the only pleasure that I can now permit myself is, that should I come to Eastbourne (which is doubtful) we might visit you by dromedary for tea: if I leave London at all I am most unlikely to get done all the things that I ought to do (such as my 1923 Income Tax Return) and certainly not any of the things that you want me to do. I have done absolutely nothing for six weeks. One thing is certain: I MUST stay in London, where Vivien will be, after this week, is uncertain. But
When do you want to publish my defective compositions?
When do you want the MSS?
I should like at least to provide a short preface, which might take two or three nights’ work, and make a few alterations in the text to remove the more patent evidences of periodical publication. These three essays are not very good (the one on Dryden is the best) but I cannot offer you my ‘Reactionary’s Encheiridion’ or my ‘By Sleeping-Car to Rome: A Note on Church Reunion’ because they will not be ready in time. But you shall see for yourself, as soon as you wish, whether you think these three papers good enough to reprint.
But what about a FRAGMENT of an Unpublished Novel from you to me? One exists most of the time in morose discontent with the sort of work that one does oneself, and wastes vain envy on all others: the worst of it is that nobody will believe one. But no one regrets more that these moods should occur to Mrs. Woolf (of all people) than
Yr. devoted servt.
Thos. EliotDocument from The Letters of T. S. Eliot, Volumes One and Two, edited by Valerie Eliot and Hugh Haughton, published by Yale University Press in September 2011. Reproduced by permission.
The letter is a part of the T. S. Eliot collection of the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas at Austin.
When you’ve suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is unbearable and trifling. My life is like a memento mori painting from European art: there is always a grinning skull at my side to remind me of the folly of human ambition. I mock this skull. I look at it and I say, “You’ve got the wrong fellow. You may not believe in life but I don’t believe in death. Move on!” The skull snickers and moves ever closer, but that doesn’t surprise me. The reason death sticks so closely to life isn’t a biological necessity—-it’s envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can. But life leaps over oblivion lightly, losing only a thing or two of no importance, and gloom is but the passing shadow of a cloud.
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
Carmilla by Sheridan Le Fanu
Long before the vampire madness, we’re all familiar with the brilliant works of Anne Rice. She brings back the vampire myth alive, even darker and elegant. If you have read her books then you know the way she depicts one’s emotion and feeling is eloquent, the scenery description is captivating. I first read Queen of The Damned when I was in junior high school, I vividly remember how complicated the words are to me, not word per word by the whole context, it’s philosophical. And again, as I mentioned it before, it’s dark. Well written. I’m not here to compare with the booming teenage vampire series, as we all are aware of it, I’ll give you a hint: it sparkles. Oh, I was going to say, “I’m not going to judge.” But I just did that.
Of course, Bram Stoker’s work is inescapable, it’s been with us since long time ago. But little did some of you know, Joseph Thomas Sheridan Le Fanu is the first author who published a novel about vampire myth, and it is beautifully written. I sense romanticism whenever he describes something. According to Wikipedia, “[…]he was an Irish writer of Gothic tales and mystery novels. He was the premier ghost story writer of the nineteenth century and had a seminal influence on the development of this genre in the Victorian era.”
Here’s an excerpt of Carmilla, his novel:
The first occurrence in my existence, which produced a terrible impression upon my mind, which, in fact, never has been effaced, was one of the very earliest incidents of my life which I can recollect. Some people will think it so trifling that it should not be recorded here. You will see, however, by-and-by, why I mention it. The nursery, as it was called, though I had it all to myself, was a large room in the upper story of the castle, with a steep oak roof. I can’t have been more than six years old, when one night I awoke, and looking round the room from my bed, failed to see the nursery-maid. Neither was my nurse there; and I thought myself alone. I was not frightened, for I was one of those happy children who are studiously kept in ignorance of ghost stories, of fairy tales, and of all such lore as makes us cover up our heads when the door cracks suddenly, or the flicker of an expiring candle makes the shadow of a bed-post dance upon the wall, nearer to our faces. I was vexed and insulted at finding myself, as I conceived, neglected, and I began to whimper, preparatory to a hearty bout of roaring; when to my surprise, I saw a solemn, but very pretty face looking at me from the side of the bed. It was that of a young lady who was kneeling, with her hands under the coverlet. I looked at her with a kind of pleased wonder, and ceased whimpering. She caressed me with her hands, and lay down beside me on the bed, and drew me towards her, smiling; I felt immediately delightfully soothed, and fell asleep again. I was wakened by a sensation as if two needles ran into my breast very deep at the same moment, and I cried loudly. The lady started back, with her eyes fixed on me, and then slipped down upon the floor, and, as I thought, hid herself under the bed.
I was now for the first time frightened, and I yelled with all my might and main.
You can read the rest of the story online, I haven’t finished reading it, but I want to share this brilliant novel to everyone that’s interested.
Huffington Post: The Most Amazing Libraries In The World ›
“Huffington Post: Times are changing for libraries everywhere. But even as many libraries build their digital collections and amp up their technological offerings, we thought we’d take a step back and show our appreciation for the beauty of many of these vast collections of books. Below are some of the most amazingly beautiful libraries from around the world.”
Stockholm Public Library
Abbey Library of St. Gall in Switzerland
Guardian Books: Bret Easton Ellis on the misreading of American Psycho ›
Brett Easton Ellis explains American Psycho, his first novel, to Guardian Books:
In many ways Patrick Bateman was me: his rage, his disgust and to a degree his passivity stem from what I was feeling at the time. And boredom. The novel is really about my loneliness, my alienation. I wasn’t part of the yuppie culture of the America of the 80s. I identify a lot with Bateman’s criticism of the society and the culture he is in. I found myself in a similar position where I was both upset at what it meant to become an adult and also found myself attracted to certain aspects of whatever that lifestyle meant at that time. The term “yuppie” was coined in something like 1984. In retrospect, Wall Street is just wallpaper in the novel. I don’t think it would be as widely read if the point or the message of the book was specifically an attack on yuppie culture. I think there’s a larger feeling that people respond to in the book. I don’t know what that is, but it is obviously something.
[…]
The novel was misread. The feminist reaction was an overtly emotional response to a text that was more on their side than they realised at the time. I don’t think the book is anti-woman, as I’ve said many times. But even if it was – so what? It’s a novel, it’s not a creed. Some of the passages were leaked to the press by “concerned employees” of Simon & Schuster. Publication was cancelled and the novel was picked up by Random House about four or five days later.
I knew it would all blow over – the controversy and the feminist protesting and the death threats that I received – because I knew people would finally get it, so it didn’t bother me as much as it would if I hadn’t believed in the book. I’d been involved in the publishing industry since I was about 20. I wasn’t exactly a veteran, but I knew how everything worked. I’d published two novels previously. I’d been around the block. I had become used to controversy.
Writing is an emotional process. When I’m figuring things out in the early days of the novel, the narrator’s voice and sensibility and mindset seem to take over. […]
Do I really have to carry on getting tangled up with the chattering of base functionaries like this? And they admit themselves that they are of the lowest position. They’re talking about things of which they don’t have the slightest understanding, anyway. It’s only because of their stupidity that they’re able to be so sure of themselves. I just need few words with someone of the same social standing as myself and everything will be incomparably clearer, much clearer than a long conversation with these two can make it.
The Trial - Franz Kafka
