—𝓐𝓵𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓷 𝓦𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭

Lately I've been obsessed with old cinema.

"See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. The fig tree forms its early fruit; the blossoming vines spread their fragrance."

—Song of Solomon 2:11-13 (NIV)

𝘏𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 🌺,

𝘚𝘰 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘚𝘶𝘣𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘐 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘶𝘺𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘵. 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵.

"In the first week of April the weather turned suddenly, unseasonably, insistently lovely. The sky was blue, the air warm and windless, and the sun beamed on the muddy ground with all the sweet impatience of June"

― Donna Tartt, The Secret History

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

—Franz Kafka

—Donna Tartt, The Secret History

Hello!! I just found your blog and it is just lovely xx 😊💕

Omg thank you so much love, this means a lot to me. 🥹❤️‍🩹

𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘋𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘺, 𝘓𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺, 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘶𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘦. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. 𝘐 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘣𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵, 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨—𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖳𝗋𝗎𝗅𝗒 𝖮𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖺

—𝖠 𝗅𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗅, 𝖩𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅.

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar