methida✶

XXII;I live in the library, read books, drink tea, and write reviews

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Imagination is the woman with whom I fall asleep every dawn.

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The Little Friend Donna Tartt

In The Little Friend, Tartt writes about loneliness. Childhood loneliness hits the hardest—it’s desperate, sticky, suffocating. If the protagonist had been weaker, she would have drowned in it. But she’s got her privileges (yes, she’s from the upper world). Twelve-year-old Harriet does have a family. Sure, a deeply dysfunctional one, but still—a family. And so her enormous loneliness breaks into smaller pieces, which makes it almost bearable. You can keep going, maybe?

Ten years before, her family lived through a nightmare: her older brother was murdered while playing outside their house. The novel flirts with the detective genre, but there’s no payoff—no real resolution. A lot of readers, from what I gather, were disappointed by that. I wasn’t. Because the book isn’t about “who did it.” Who cares? What matters is the aftermath—the fallout for the family, the town, the people. And the fallout is catastrophic. Harriet’s family never recovered. Her mother shut down completely, spends her days lying in bed, crying. Her sister Allison also shut down, only she sleeps—10, 12 hours a day. Her father took one look at this kingdom of the sleeping and ran off to the next state with his secretary. The local boys gawk at Sleeping Beauty Allison, but she doesn’t give a damn.

Harriet, though, is a tomboy. She wants everything, tries everything. She’s the healthiest one in this family—and yet, no one really cares about her, least of all her mother. Their household is described in a way that gives you chills: every evening the family home turns into a crypt. Thank God for the grandmothers. Not that they know what to do with a restless, life-hungry teenager, but at least they try. At least there’s some love, however imperfect.

One day Harriet gets it into her head that she should dig into her brother’s death. But she’s twelve, which means she’s a bit of an idiot (as all twelve-year-olds are), and based on a few offhand remarks, she convinces herself that the killer must be Danny—her brother’s ex-best friend, now a petty criminal and drug addict. And so we’re thrown into another dysfunctional family, this one pure white trash. And, surprise, there’s nothing good there either. There’s nothing good anywhere.

To me, Harriet and Danny felt like mirrors of each other. Both lonely kids, both lonely people, with no one who gives a damn about their thoughts, feelings, or inner lives. The difference is that Harriet has her privileges. Danny has nothing—just chaos. And in America, there’s a name for that: white trash. Between the two of them, I found Danny more tragic. Nothing grows from nothing. Harriet has a chance. Danny doesn’t. And yet, Harriet is far crueler than he is. At twelve, she decides she’s going to kill someone—and almost does. The water tower scene is basically a showdown between two monsters, honestly. And of course the more ruthless monster wins (even if she’s still a child).

And Tartt hints—annoyingly, since I hate it when authors break into their own text—that Harriet’s future won’t hold anything good either. She’ll remain just as lonely. Out of sheer stubbornness she refuses to say goodbye to the old nanny, who her mother (in her misguided, clumsy way) kicked out of the house. Harriet could’ve kept that connection, nurtured it, and grown up with at least one person who truly mattered in her life. But no.

And what about Allison, the sleeper? A quick marriage and a baby with whoever happens to be around? Maybe that’s not such a bad outcome for her. If I were her husband, though, her indifference would drive me to drink, or to start a second family, or—worst case—to aggression, just to squeeze some reaction out of her. But that’s just me speculating.

This is a devastating family drama—but you need to understand that from page one. It is NOT a detective story, not really an investigation. The detective angle is either a failed lure for readers or just the author’s little game. Either way, I’m fine with that kind of game.

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I hate being a creative person when you're alone and no one really understands you. You only feel alive in those fleeting moments when something hits you — inspiration, emotion, whatever it is — and you start creating. You can't stop. It's like this phase of hyperfixation that never truly goes away. It keeps you breathing, keeps you feeling alive.

The monologue in my head never stops. It’s just... always there. That’s how I live. I used to draw, write poems — I lived through all of it.

Yesterday, I found this old piece of a story I started when I was around thirteen. I never finished it back then. But now, I did. I spent a few days and nights on it, and finally, it’s done. A story that no one will probably ever read.

It’s not about love. Not about peace. It’s about something I don’t even know how to explain — something that feels both familiar and far away at the same time.

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mothercain

it’s just like..... late night televangelism and government conspiracies and tight, brown secretary dresses and overwhelmed mothers who were never that pretty and grimy middle school cafeterias and schoolyard bullies and giving into violent urges and masturbating with your eyes closed and needlepoint hanging on wood paneling and never drinking or smoking except once in a blue moon because it’s a nasty habit but sometimes you just need to be nasty and collecting old books that you’ll never read because you like how pretty the spines are and being barefoot all the time and never doing anything with your hair besides letting it grow and praying at the foot of your bed once a month so you don’t forget what it was like and collecting pond water in little old bottles and liking it when the air outside is sweltering because it makes you feel high and stopping on the side of the highway to sit in the grass and stare at nothing in particular and saying hi to old people in the grocery store because you worry they feel invisible and ultimately knowing that yesterday is too new and everything you used to love gets smaller and smaller in the rearview

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"All I need."

A person in your life whose existence you are not even sure of. A mishmash, a Frankenstein made of pieces of your past attachments and dependencies, of people you once lived for and devoted yourself to—those who will never look at you the same way again. They are different now, while you are still chasing the elusive image of an understanding person, the only one who could truly understand you and stay by your side until death.

These people carry the tenderness you once knew, but it no longer belongs to you. They hold the voice that once whispered the most important words to you, but now it sounds distant, like an echo. They have the body you once reached for, but now it belongs to someone else's hands.

I want everything these attachments once meant to me to be sealed within a single image. I want them to hold everything I have lost but still seek in others. This image is a mirage, a reflection of my own despair. It was created in my thoughts, over and over again, like an unattainable ideal that no artist could ever paint with the right shade.

But this image keeps slipping away. I try to piece it together from fragments of memory, from voices, gestures, glances that once meant everything to me. Yet, instead of a whole person, I end up with something blurred, ghostly.

I think that if I could just collect the right features, the right habits, the right words in a single person—then everything would finally make sense. Then I wouldn’t have to search anymore, to wander, to fill the emptiness with someone new, knowing that they too will eventually become part of the past.

And then a thought creeps in: that such a person will never appear. That it was always my delusion, because such a thing does not exist.

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A person will never understand that they are a vile creature. If they are vile, then everyone else is to blame—except them. No one ever admits their weakness, their flaw, their immoral act, or their terrible character. Even if they claim to understand themselves and the consequences of their actions, even if they insist that they have recognized their responsibility and guilt, deep down, they never truly understand. They "admit" their guilt only due to societal pressure, just to be left alone and not have to deal with strange accusations like "you ruined my life."

A human being is a creature that strives for self-justification. They will always find a reason that excuses their actions, an explanation that softens their guilt. They will shift the responsibility onto circumstances, other people, fate, childhood trauma, or upbringing. They will say: "I didn't want to, but it just happened," "I was forced," "I'm a victim of circumstances." Deep down, we will always look for a way out. We will try to convince ourselves that we are not so guilty, that this choice was the only possible one, that anyone in our place would have done the same.

Repentance is not always sincere awareness—sometimes, it's just a way to ease internal anxiety, to silence the voice of conscience.

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Mona Awad’s Bunny defies genre classification. The best way to describe it is as a Lovecraftian Alice in Wonderland for the 21st century—blending drug-induced trips, tiny cupcakes, magic, and murder.

Samantha, an outsider in an elite creative writing program at a prestigious East Coast university, struggles with writer’s block and feels disconnected from her dissertation advisor. Worst of all, she has to attend workshops with the Bunnies—a clique of eerily beautiful, impeccably dressed girls who live in their own strange little world. They call each other Bunny, hug with unsettling intensity, and speak in an unbearably childish manner. Their presence is both satirical and unsettling, exposing the hollowness of superficial friendships.

Samantha despises them—until they invite her to one of their Smut Salon gatherings. Before she fully realizes what’s happening, she’s drawn into their cult-like world, and reality begins to shift in ways she can’t explain.

Awad’s prose is mesmerizing, rich with imagery that is both whimsical and deeply unsettling—things that seem cute from afar but become disturbing up close. Her sharp satire skewers the pretentiousness of art students, leaving us to question whether Samantha, despite her disdain for the Bunnies, is really that different from them.

This novel is filled with eerie, dreamlike horror—bunnies (lots of them!), puppet-like men, gruesome transformations, and unsettlingly sweet rituals. The deceptively soft, pink cover misleads, as this is far from a lighthearted read. What begins as chaotic and surreal eventually clicks into place, revealing deeper themes about creativity, artistic identity, and the influence of group dynamics on individuality.

I expected a darkly humorous thriller with a few ritualistic murders. Instead, I found a layered, intoxicating novel blending magical realism with biting social commentary. Bunny was a breath of fresh air after a string of forgettable reads—a Dark Academia novel wrapped in candy-colored horror. Think Donna Tartt meets Mean Girls with a Scream Queens twist.

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Cormac McCarthy "Blood Meridian"

"Blood Meridian" is a historical study based on real events. Alongside the author, we follow a gang of mercenaries and witness ultraviolence in all its glory—senseless, purposeless, and ruthless. Rivers of blood, mountains of corpses, and grim landscapes unfold before the reader, striking with their brutal realism.

Cormac McCarthy was not the first to deconstruct the myth of the Wild West, but he did so more convincingly than anyone else. He set the precedent for a modern trend where heroic adventures are replaced by a world of cruelty, chaos, and meaningless, abrupt death. However, unlike many of his followers, McCarthy takes an almost academic, detached approach, examining how human beings become trapped in an endless cycle of violence from birth.

Following the nameless protagonist and the gang of scalp hunters, McCarthy deliberately disregards the classic Western formula. There are no heroes, no villains, no justice, and no clear purpose—only an endless, merciless journey. Each chapter unfolds like another loop in a spiraling nightmare, propelled not by dialogue but by vivid details: a hermit slave trader, a bull lifting a horse onto its horns, a girl cradling a dead bear.

McCarthy possesses a rare talent—he can describe both a sunset and a jet of blood from a severed head with equal poetry. He seamlessly blends brutal realism, grotesque imagery, and hallucinatory horror, culminating in one of the most terrifying figures in literature—Judge Holden. A demon from hell, an ancient deity, or perhaps a Lovecraftian monster as old as the earth itself. The only being in perfect harmony with this world, which he himself describes as "a fairground with attractions."

"Blood Meridian" is an outstanding and unique work, one of the few novels truly deserving of the title Great American Novel—capitalized, in every sense of the word.

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Home is not always the four walls where you have lived or are living.

More often than not, it is surrounded by the warmest faces and the loudest laughter under a crying sky.

Sometimes, it is a secluded corner where nightmares and fatigue fall off your body in shreds, allowing you to take a fresh breath of life.

Sometimes, it is a separate world of book structures and open spaces, replacing the usual clouds and blue skies—a fantastic fortress known only to you and the heroes of your dreams, often sketched in pencil on the corners of notebooks.

And more rarely, it is found in someone else's eyes, in their gentle voice, and in a few simple yet profoundly important words.

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"Love is the Breath of Death"

The book "Definitely Hungry" by Chelsea Summers is the story of renowned culinary critic Dorothy Daniels, who boasts an expansive range of gastronomic and aesthetic tastes. Dorothy is a highly functional sociopath and psychopath. She's never been married and has had fleeting intimate relationships with playboys from Manhattan and Italy.

The book is a mix of revulsion at the events described, the protagonist's flamboyant behavior, and her obsession with food. It recounts how Dorothy ended up in prison and unveils shocking details of her crimes.

"And the more horrifying you find my memories, the better you'll feel about yourself. Morally superior."

The book’s light and unobtrusive language draws readers into the story, making it accessible while also deep and layered. "Definitely Hungry" touches on themes of friendship, support, and love, demonstrating the importance of building a support system during difficult times.

The topics explored are wide-ranging: from societal pressures regarding ideal beauty standards to genuine reflections on relationships with loved ones and oneself. "Men come and go, but a girl's best friend will always be another girl."

The plot grips readers from the first pages, while the soft-touch cover and elegant design make the reading experience even more enjoyable.

What else can I add? I was utterly captivated by the writing style. Through Dorothy, the author masterfully addresses numerous relevant topics and questions, allowing readers to delve deeper into her world. Although Dorothy is a fictional character, she is so vividly written that she often feels more real than many living people.

Still, yes, she’s fictional, as she lacks significant theoretical similarities to real serial killers. "The truth, whether we like it or not, is that women kill for almost any reason."

I felt a tinge of sadness parting ways with this book and Dorothy herself. While the narrative unfolds slowly and plot twists are rare, that’s precisely its charm—I thoroughly enjoyed immersing myself in her musings.

The descriptions of food became a true highlight. Moreover, Dorothy vividly demonstrates her relationships, not only with the people around her but also with food, constantly drawing parallels between the two.

"Some people resemble parasites—they infiltrate their partner's body and, merging symbiotically, drain them from within."

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Reviews Ninth House, then the same week book tok reveals Leigh Bardugo doesnt writer her own books. It was ghost-writers all along

Interesting, I didn't know about that.

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Review of the book "Ninth House" by Leigh Bardugo

*Ninth House* is a dark, captivating, and intriguing story by Leigh Bardugo, known for her fantasy novels. But this time, she offers something entirely new—a grim thriller filled with secrets, occultism, and magic, set against the backdrop of one of the world's most prestigious universities, Yale. This book immerses the reader in a world where ancient secret societies coexist with modern student life, creating an atmosphere that sends shivers down your spine.

The main character, Galaxy "Alex" Stern, is a girl with a troubled past who has been given a second chance at life. After tragic events that nearly cost her her life, she unexpectedly receives an invitation from the mysterious "Ninth House." This house is not just an ordinary student organization but a secret society tasked with overseeing the magical rituals conducted by the eight other Yale societies. Becoming a member, Alex dives into a world of secrets, dangers, and the supernatural, where magic is not just fantasy but a real force that shouldn't be taken lightly. But when a mysterious murder takes place on campus, Alex realizes that her role here is far more dangerous than she could have imagined.

Bardugo raises serious questions about power, corruption, and the price people are willing to pay for their ambitions. The book explores the darker sides of human nature, unafraid to showcase them through the lens of magic and the supernatural.

Alex Stern is one of the most memorable characters I've encountered recently. She is far from a perfect heroine: rough, sarcastic, and stubborn, yet incredibly vivid and real. Her inner struggle and attempts to reconcile with her past make her especially engaging. Darlington, her enigmatic mentor, adds a special charm to the story with his old-fashioned gallantry and deep knowledge of magic.

Leigh Bardugo masterfully creates a tense and dense atmosphere. Her descriptions of the Yale campus come to life on the pages—from dark libraries to mysterious basements where sinister rituals take place. At times, the text is rich with details and flashbacks, making the reading experience engaging but demanding of concentration. Bardugo has managed to create an incredibly convincing world where ancient rituals intertwine with modern reality. Yale’s secret societies, with their dangerous rituals and hidden secrets, come alive on the pages, turning the university into a labyrinth of mysteries and intrigue.

"Ninth House" is a book that pulls you into its dark yet mesmerizing world. I found myself reading late into the night, unable to put down the mystery that surrounds every page. Alex is a character who stays with you even after you've finished reading. Her struggle to find her place in this harsh world evokes genuine empathy. At the same time, the book doesn't shy away from showcasing cruelty and darkness, making it more mature and serious than typical fantasy.

"Ninth House" is a dark and gripping journey that will appeal to those looking for something more than just fantasy. It's a story of magic, power, and secrets that can cost you your life. Leigh Bardugo has crafted a book that holds you captive until the very last page, leaving you eagerly awaiting the sequel.

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★ - Halloween plan: turn into a tree spirit and tangle up mountain trails, cover roots and stumps with cobwebs, flow with fog, collect legends in a thick notebook ༄

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a girl who reads can't love easily. she's just looking for her spiritual double, similar to her details.

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Review of "The Lighthouse" (2019)

"The Lighthouse" (directed by Robert Eggers, 2019) is a dark and atmospheric psychological horror film that explores themes of isolation, madness, and the dangers of unchecked ambition. The plot follows two lighthouse keepers, Ephraim Winslow (Robert Pattinson) and Thomas Wake (Willem Dafoe), who become increasingly isolated and lose their grip on reality while stationed on a remote New England island.

The film is filled with symbolism. The lighthouse itself serves as a powerful symbol of isolation and entrapment. Its remoteness and towering height create a sense of claustrophobia, trapping the protagonists in a metaphorical prison. This feeling is intensified by the stunning black-and-white cinematography and the haunting musical score.

One of the film’s central themes is the exploration of madness. As the characters become more isolated, the lines between reality and delusion blur. The film poses the question: is madness simply an illness, or is it a result of one’s circumstances and environment?

The relationship between Winslow and Wake is particularly significant, symbolizing the conflict between old and new, tradition and progress. Wake represents the past and its superstitions, while Winslow seeks to break free from these constraints and forge his own path.

The film’s ambiguous ending leaves viewers questioning the nature of reality. It’s up to the audience to decide whether the events on screen are a product of the keepers' delusions or a reflection of a darker, more sinister reality.

Overall, The Lighthouse is a powerful and thought-provoking film that demands deep reflection. It’s a must-watch for fans of psychological horror and arthouse cinema. Its atmospheric intensity and depth make it an unforgettable experience.

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//🦉"🪨"☕️``...📼

-When I'm old enough, I'll have my own little house, tucked away in the most remote wilderness, where only you will find me. On cold autumn evenings we'll drink hot chocolate, listen to old music or watch films, reveling in our own silent solitude," Remus whispered to the stars, which seemed to be frozen above his head and tickling his rye curls with needle-like hands.

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life passes in a kind of eternal waiting. waiting for films, books, series, events, people, buses. winter, spring, summer, autumn. calls, messages, meetings. salaries, warm weather, weekends. waiting for everything to change. waiting that one day everything will be fine. and you just have to stop waiting and finally start living.