Ginger🪻

she/her ♡ 21 eng lit student ¿writer?

[paper-bugs]

Long distance relationship but one of them is in a coma and the other is in London 😔

[nondelphic]

i keep telling people i’m a writer but all i do is open google docs, scroll for 45 minutes, sigh dramatically, and close it like i just gave birth

[guiltyonsundays]

In defence of Will Ladislaw

George Eliot's characterisation of Will Ladislaw is one of the few aspects of Middlemarch that is not universally praised, with no less a person than Henry James commenting in 1873 that he lacked “sharpness of outline and depth of color”, making him the novel’s “only eminent failure.” And while Will's character is certainly not as clearly defined as some of the other characters in the novel, I believe that this was absolutely intentional on Eliot's part. Middlemarch is full to the brim of characters who believe they know exactly what they want—not least among them, our two protagonists, Dorothea Brooke and Tertius Lydgate, whose ardent ambitions and inflexible attitudes lead them into catastrophic errors of judgement and unhappy marriages.

By contrast, Will's lack of strongly defined goals and his changeability are almost his defining character traits. He's aimless and pliable, prone to rapid mood swings and drastic career changes, with even his physical features seeming to "chang[e] their form; his jaw looked sometimes large and sometimes small; and the little ripple in his nose was a preparation for metamorphosis. When he turned his head quickly his hair seemed to shake out light."

Will’s inscrutability is closely tied to his ambiguous status within the rigid class structure and xenophobic society of Victorian England, with his Polish ancestry and “rebellious blood on both sides” making him a target for suspicion. He is repeatedly aligned (and aligns himself) with oppressed, marginalised, and outcast populations—Jewish people, artists, and the poor.

He serves as a narrative foil for characters like Lydgate and Edward Casaubon, who prioritise specialist expertise above all and are consequently incapable of broad knowledge synthesis. He critiques Casaubon's life's work as being "thrown away, as so much English scholarship is, for want of knowing what is being done by the rest of the world." By contrast, Will serves as Eliot's defence of the value of a liberal education. One of the first things that we learn about him is that he declines to choose a vocation, and instead seeks to travel widely, experiencing diverse cultures and ways of life. He has broad tastes and interests, trying his hand at poetry and painting before eventually pursuing a career in politics.

He also functions as a narrative foil for Dorothea. Will is initially apathetic to politics, whereas Dorothea initially professes herself to be disinterested in art and beauty. This is perfectly encapsulated in their exchange in Rome, when Dorothea declares, "I should like to make life beautiful—I mean everybody's life. And then all this immense expense of art, that seems somehow to lie outside life and make it no better for the world, pains one", to which Will replies, "You might say the same of landscape, of poetry, of all refinement [...] The best piety is to enjoy—when you can [...] I suspect that you have some false belief in the virtues of misery, and want to make your life a martyrdom.”

By the end of the novel, Dorothea unlearns some of her puritanical suspicion of sensual pleasure, whereas Will becomes more serious, compassionate, and politically engaged, dedicating his life to the accomplishment of humane political reforms. They are both flawed individuals, who ultimately become more well rounded through their relationship with each other. Admittedly, Dorothea's influence on Will is more significant than his on her—and once again, I believe that this was intentional on Eliot's part.

In my opinion, the negative response to Will Ladislaw at the time of Middlemarch's publication (and in the centuries since) was and is profoundly informed by gendered expectations of masculine dominance in romantic relationships. Will's marriage to Dorothea has often been described as disappointing, with many readers and critics viewing the ambitious Lydgate as the embodiment of the ideal husband that Dorothea outlines at the beginning of the novel—a talented man engaged in important work for the betterment of humanity, to whom she can devote herself.

However, one of the central themes of the novel is that people are often mistaken in their beliefs about what they want, and Dorothea's marriage to Edward Casaubon certainly demonstrates that she would not in fact be happy living her life in submission to a man who does not respect her opinions. I firmly believe that Lydgate's misogynistic attitudes and expectations would have made it impossible for him to be happy in a marriage of equals with a woman like Dorothea. He is explicitly drawn to Rosamond Vincy because she has "just the kind of intelligence one would desire in a woman—polished, refined, docile."

By contrast, George Eliot made a deliberate choice to pair Dorothea with a man who is not ashamed to be influenced by her, and indeed looks up to her as his moral superior. Through Dorothea's influence, Will discovers his life's work. In turn, by marrying Will, Dorothea is able to pursue her true passion. As a result of their influence on each other, these come to mean the same thing—reform. Thus, George Eliot grants Dorothea Brooke a subversively feminist, politically progressive, and profoundly cathartic ending: a life of companionate marriage, sensual pleasure, and meaningful work, in which Dorothea can devote herself (within the limited means available to her as a woman in the 19th century) to the achievement of just and compassionate reforms that "make life beautiful" for everybody—herself included.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

I read Middlemarch by George Eliot a couple years ago on ebook, and liked it very much; today I brought a paper copy, and find myself – as with the introduction of my copy of Jane Eyre, as with many of the literary-criticism bad takes on Dracula that people have discussed in Dracula Daily – dissatisfied with the attempt at feminist literary analysis made in its introduction.

The analysis, though largely positive, says that “The portrayal of Rosamond’s motivation is less sure than Lydgate’s,” and suggests that it is a detraction from the work’s feminist qualities that “while criticizing Lydgate’s expectations for a wife, George Eliot seems also to blame Rosamonfd for not putting her husband’s views and needs before her own.” It also sees “ambivalence” in the conflict between “sharp satire of Mr. Casaubon’s requirement of complete devotion in a wife and warm authorial devotion of Dorothea’s desire to serve her husband selflessly.” And finally, the analyst is troubled that Eliot’s praise of Dorothea is highest when she overcomes her own jealousy and unhappiness to go to Rosamond to save Rosamond and Lydgate’s marriage and likely save Rosamond herself from disaster: the analyst says, “There is nothing feminist or progressive in her action or the narrator’s presentation of it…Dorothea’s achievement is a purely personal one.”

These quotes and the ideas in which they are embedded give me the impression that the analyst is mssing something very crucial about the book by attempting to divide it into actions and attitudes that are “feminist” (women doing what they want or acting outside of their designated spheres) and those that are “non-feminist” (women acting inside the ‘personal/familial’ sphere or acting in service to others). It makes for a very shallow and lacking take on the novel. It comes from imposing the analyst’s own framework – one the novel is not designed to meet – and finding anything that does not mesh with that framework inconsistent or ambivalent.

The division that is of importance to the novel and its author, I believe, is between actions – whether by women or men – that are directed at the well-being of others or at a higher purpose, and actions that are directed at the satisfaction of one’s own comfort, complacency, or vanity. This very straightforwardly illuminates why Dorothea should be admired both for her desire to serve a higher goal in contributing to better housing for workers, to meaningful academic research, to anything, and for showing kindness, compassion and selflessness even within the limited sphere where she has been placed. It likewise illuminates why the author (while being clearly critical of the society that has produced Rosamond and that holds up her uselessness as the feminine ideal) can also convey some blame of Rosamond by thinking only of her own desires and comforts and not even trying to understand or sympathize with Lydgate’s higher goal of giving people useful medical care.

The tragedy of Rosamond is not only that she is placed within a limited sphere, taught not just to only know but to only value what belongs to that sphere, and that she then frustrates her husband by them being what she was taught to be – it is that she contributes nothing to the world and does not want to contribute anything to the world. What I feel from the book is that Eliot feels the greatest thing in human life is to exercise your capacities fully to serve and benefit others, and that Rosamond’s tragedy (which she does not even know to recognize as a tragedy) is her self-centredness as much as her ‘feminine sphere’, and that those two things are both intertwined in what society and education have taught her that a woman should be. The book is saying: “Look at this woman – she’s what you want, she’s what you teach women to be, and not despite but because of that she is unable to be a partner to her husband, which is the only goal you say women should have!”

Dorothea’s virtue is that all her goals are about living for something larger than herself; she and Lydgate stand out in that desire, and if she is initially thwarted in it, by the end she at least gets to do it to a greater degree than he does.

There’s also something else I find feminist about the novel, and it touches on the third of the three main relationships – Mary Garth and Fred Vincy – which the literary analyst in the Intro completely ignores, presumably because they find it uninteresting. There seem to exist a variation on the same novel in many different cultures, the story of a woman who is dissatisfied in her marriage, has an affair with a man (who has very little appealing about himself) as an outlet fir her dissatisfaction, and dies or is ruined. In Russia it is Anna Karenina, in France it is Madame Bovary, in Germany it is Effi Briest, in the United States it is The Awakening. George Eliot is writing a novel that could very easily follow that model, and she doesn’t. All three of her women make marriages that could end in disaster for them: Dorothea misunderstands the man she marries and is already unhappy by her honeymoon, when she meets a younger abd more attractive man; Rosamond falls out of love with her husband over financial matters, nearly has an affair, and is discovered in it; Mary Garth is a good, responsible young woman who ‘throws herself away’ on a man whom we first see as an irresponsible gambler. But in this book, none if them are ruined, and all of them “win”. Dorothea outlives her husband and marries another man whom she loves and who suits her better, and with whom she can pursue meaningful goals; Rosamond gets the comfortable life she wanted; Fred turns out surprisingly well and he and Mary are happy. Instead, it is the main male character who is ruined by his matrimonial choices – Lydgate is deeply unhappy in the un-meaningful, profit-seeking life, and dies early, and the bitterness of his life is powerfully evoked in his description of Rosamond as a “basil-plant…a plant which flourishes on murdered men’s brains.” Eliot, unlike other authors of her time, lets her women make marriage decisions which are or might be seriously erroneous without deing destroyed by them. All of them, get happy endings, by their own definitions. And Dorothea, her central character, is in my view far more interesting than the main characters of the aforementioned novels because she has a real goal – to do good for the world in a meaningful way – rather than just an inchoate dissatisfaction that becomes expressed in sexual or romantic desire, as if that was the only thing women cared about.

[princeturveydrop]

Would I Be the Asshole if I asked my wife to promise not to do something after I die without telling her what it is?

My (45M) wife (19F) and I have been married for several months. To be quite honest, I haven’t enjoyed being married as much as I expected I would. My wife is very affectionate and always wants to help me with my work (I’m in academia), which I find more annoying than helpful. However, the main issue is that my wife seems to have developed an obsession with my second cousin (25M).

Due to some unfortunate family history that I felt it my duty to set right, I was until recently financing my cousin’s education. Shortly after meeting my wife, my cousin told me he would no longer like to have my financial support and would instead make his own way. I was in favor of this decision, until it became clear that his idea of “making his own way” was to move in with my wife’s uncle (who lives in the same small town as my wife and I) and take up an occupation that’s now causing embarrassing associations for me.

This all happened while I was recuperating from a heart attack and had expressly asked my wife to tell my cousin not to visit us at that time. Of course, I can’t ask her directly, but I’m convinced my wife went behind my back and asked her uncle to invite my cousin to visit him. There have been a lot of other fishy circumstances, such as my wife asking me to rewrite my will and leave everything to my cousin instead of her because “she has more than enough money already, and it stresses her out.”

I’ve just had another consultation with the doctor, who says there’s a possibility I could have another heart attack at any time, so I really want to set my affairs in order and make sure that if I die soon, my cousin won’t marry my wife for the money. I trust my wife and don’t believe she’s having an affair with my cousin, but I don’t trust my cousin as far as I could throw him, not that that would be very far, as I’ve always been more inclined to mental than physical exertion.

This brings me to my question: WIBTA if I extracted a (potential) deathbed promise from my wife not to do anything I wouldn’t want her to do? As a backup, I will be including a codicil in my will stating that she will lose all of my money if she marries my cousin. However, I think the promise will hold more weight with her; as I said, she’s very fond of me (a bit too much so, but that’s another issue).

Edit: No, it doesn’t matter what my wife’s uncle’s business is. It’s not illegal, just embarrassing.

Second edit: Several people seem to think there’s a loophole, namely that my wife could marry my cousin anyways and forfeit the money. My cousin is both lazy and and avaricious, and I’m convinced he’s only interested in my wife because of the money.

[gogolols]

IM SCTUSLLY CRYING LMFAO

[eymurn]

Oh! The intimacy of adopting each other’s vocabulary.

[gogolols]

Chatting about bad writing, poor endings, and the sensation of being beheaded

[fenristheulv]

Richard Papen and Daniel Molloy are at their core very similar.

Just similar enough that if they met they'd loathe each other

[gogolols]

the concept of Daniel and Richard even being in the same ROOM as each other 💀💀

[0nemorestranger]

anne "agnes" hathaway-shakespeare from hamnet and christopher "kit" marlowe from will 2017 would've been an absolutely lethal duo

[gogolols]

So I’ve been reading Doctor Faustus after falling in love with Christopher Marlowe’s works and him as a person (he’s very fascinating), and all I can think of are my fav ships.

“Had I as many souls as there be stars, I’d give them all to Mephistopheles!”

… was not aware the Faustian bargain became mainstream from a love story, which I’m so happy Marlowe turned it into one cause the original German telling was not as romantic or tragic (at least, to me).

Devil’s Minion is almost the mirror image of Faustus and Mephistopheles: man in search of power gets power in exchange for losing his soul. In Daniel’s case, his soul is lost with immortality, even if he doesn’t see it as a burden. Also, he and Armand’s time on Night Island is just Faustus and Mephistopheles’s time traveling like a married couple. Billford also came to mind, and Fyolai, too. I was like, “OH MY GOD… this was the start of it all.” As in the start of characters who willingly enter a relationship they know will result in their undoing, either doing so out of selfishness or obsession (with some creature or another subject).

[mikewheelerisaqueerler]

what do you mean i will always associate new years eve with the greatest queerbait in modern media every year for the rest of my life

[alexwerwolf]

[gogolols]

Silly

[vaultspry]

i’m reading the secret history by donna tartt and i came digging on tumblr to indulge a bit in my new hyperfocus and all i find are photos of sweaters and cafés and snow that it's okay but like

where the fuck are the dead deers where the fuck are the posts about this four fellows running on fucking feral in the woods at midnight after an orgy and then coming back home covered in blood like give me the crows and the poisons and the baths and the bruises and the blonde hair painted red with blood give me the obsessionnnn

this is straight folk horror but in elitist cult rediscovering paganism with no limits and i love them for that

[gogolols]

I could never hear the music | Richard Papen x Charles Macaulay

Words: 2150

Tags/TW: Smoking, swearing, alcohol abuse, mentions of canonical suicide, angst, first-person (Richard's POV), additional tags to be added

Character/s: Richard Papen, Charles Macaulay

Setting: Post-canon; Houston, Texas

A/n: Very new to the fandom, so feel free to leave any notes :)

♡♡♡♡

Part 1:

Even after leaving Camilla in Boston and returning to California, she haunted my mind as a delicate ghost, more often appearing as a delusion than a dream. Night after night, I attempted to sleep, but there she was, gazing down at my drowsy face, golden hair resting above her shoulders, and bright eyes burning into my mind. She would always twirl in a dark sundress, a blooming belladonna in disguise. Luckily, these dreams only lasted so long. Maybe it was completing my dissertation, and the pressure subsided once I finally obtained my PhD, but soon I had different dreams—not with Camilla, no, but with someone whom I hadn’t seen since the day Henry killed himself.

Over time, I had come to see my love for Camilla as a facade to mask any other feelings I held during our time at Hampden. Would the situation have turned out differently if I had admitted that I truly did not love her? I cannot say. But the succession of events that followed my completion of graduate school would not have happened if I had known about the endless guilt that consumed Charles’ mind after he had mistakenly shot me.

My memory has grown hazy, but I remember Charles having always been such a delicate creature when we hung out together. When I drove him home from nights at the Brasserie, he could barely discern between reality and illusion, but still smiled at me when I dragged him to his apartment, and when I took him to the hospital, carefully clinging to my arm as if it was life itself. He never let the alcohol completely consume him until he believed I had betrayed him. I hope that, before then, I acted as some sort of guiding light when he was deep in the valley of despair.

I never blamed him for what happened. I never blamed any of them, for that matter. At least, that’s some semblance of the truth, which began to reveal itself years after.

When my dreams of Camilla dissipated and were replaced by reenactments of that night, I was struck with a horror that hadn’t rushed through my veins since I heard Francis had been hospitalized for attempting suicide. But in the dreams, there was no Henry standing by the window with Camilla in his arms, nor was there Francis, sitting there idly and staring at the gash in my gut; it was just me, Charles, and the gun.

Neither of us ever spoke. It was like watching a silent film: the gun went off, the bullet swirled through the air, and right as it was about to make contact, I woke up, usually gasping and wide-eyed, frantically searching my skin for a mark, but all that was there was a reminder that we never did speak, Charles and I; the situation was never addressed.

Now, we were strangers.

Where was he now? Still in Texas, perhaps?

God, Charles, Charles, Charles, I would think after waking from one of the dreams, my head in my palms, shaking, and turning onto my stomach, nuzzling my face in the flat pillow. Why, of all people, am I thinking of you now?

It was after an especially vivid dream that I decided to travel to Houston. In the dream, I was Hyacinthus, grinning back widely at Apollo—Charles, whose hair was as bright as the sun and white robe bellowing in the wind. He threw the disc, and I ran after it. I could feel the earth rattle with each step I took, and when I jumped to grab the disc, rather than hitting me in the head, it sliced through the left side of my stomach. As I lay there dying, crimson rivers flowed onto the gentle spring grass and coated the pale hands of Charles, who cradled me and coerced my cheek, shiny eyes glistening with tears of grief rather than excessive drinking.

But since the laws of fate bind us, he whispered, you shall always be with me, and cling to my remembering lips.

My mind had created a falsified version of him. Charles was no Romantic or one to attempt to woo others; he normally tried to display authority through possessive actions, but failed in doing so since he had a clumsy way of handling things. Despite this, my dream brought back another of Apollo’s lines in Orpheus’s song:

You are my grief and my reproach: your death must be ascribed to my hand. I am the agent of your destruction.

I wasn’t able to fall back asleep that night.

The following morning was Monday, February 16th. I grabbed my carry-on bag, threw it in the trunk of my car, and began my three-day road trip to Houston. During my scenic route across the beautiful highways of America, where I saw desert, desert, and more desert, I had time to debate whether I was going on this trip to get an apology from Charles or if I was going to spill the complex feelings swirling in my mind. I was terrified that I wouldn’t even see him—I mean, I had no idea where he was. Even Camilla only knew of the general area he was now living in. She told me he was in Galveston; Houstin being the nearest city, I would make a base there, and then maybe branch out toward other islands along the Gulf. Anyway, what were the chances of even being within a mile-radius of him at any point in time? And if he was still with that woman or another person, would he even acknowledge my existence? He has tried so hard to push the past away, so who would want to see the ghost of all of his wrongdoings come walking into the present?

It was more clear, however, that I hoped not to see him. Then, I wouldn’t have to come to terms with the undeniable passion growing in my heart. I could continue believing that Camilla was the one and only person whom I ever truly loved.

I made it to Houston in twenty-five hours. Flooring the accelerator along I-10 made sailing across the desolate towns and countryside a breeze.

It was a chilly Tuesday, with the weather forecast predicting cloudy skies and an afternoon shower. I checked into a three-star hotel on Main Street, called The Old Yard, and decided to rest in my room until the evening. Once I unpacked my belongings into the bedside dresser, I changed into a navy shirt and corduroy trousers, spreading out a long twill coat at the end of the bed. I suppose what I took away most from my time in the Greek department was how to dress, and since then, it has become one of my greatest insecurities.

I had brought Marlowe’s The Jew of Malta with me; it had become one of my favorites of his plays outside of Doctor Faustus, and I re-read it until the sun began to set.

When the stars began to glisten across the sky, and the honking horns from the streets bellowed, I set the playbook onto the bedside table and took the elevator down to the lobby. I asked the concierge where the nearest bar was, and he recommended Ad Libitum. I was pleased when he told me a taxi could take me there shortly, and I waited outside under the glaring neon sign. The street lights began to flick on, and the rich scent of wine floated down toward me, mingling with smoke puffed from smokers swaying outside alleys.

The taxi pulled up to the sidewalk quite aggressively, coming to an abrupt halt and honking for me to climb into the back seat. I couldn’t see the driver’s face, but his sighs indicated he had a long day and would rather be doing anything than taking me to some tourist bar.

We arrived at the bar in a similar fashion, and he smacked his hand against the wheel for me to get out. I did so, and the second both feet were on the sidewalk, he took off without hesitation. This was my first time in Houston, and although it appeared to be just another city, I didn’t know if I necessarily liked it.

I turned around toward the bar and was surprised to find it kind of charming. It had a vintage feeling to it, even from the outside, almost as if it belonged in a quaint town over a large city such as this.

I pushed open its tall wooden doors and was greeted by warm, gilded lights hovering over the polished bar top that seemed to reach across the entirety of the room, curving into the wall on each side. It was beautiful. There had to be at least sixty barstools, and each one was occupied except the one at the opposite end of the bar.

I rushed to take it, striding across the floor until I reached the end of the bar. I was sure that it would be taken by the time I got there, especially since there were no booths or tables to take as an alternative. Quickly, I pulled out the final bar stool, glancing at its plush red cushion and mahogany legs, taking a seat and staring up at the back of the bar. I had never seen so many varieties of liquor, beer, and wine in my life. And behind it all, a long rectangular mirror reflected my gaze back at me. I flagged down the bartender and, feeling utterly exhausted from my drive, I asked for a Vieux Carré. It has become one of my favorite cocktails after a weekend trip to New Orleans a few years ago, and is a surprisingly great way to test whether a bartender can handle a complex order.

Waiting for my drink, I decided to walk toward the stage that stood about ten feet away from me. There was a Steinway piano standing solemnly in the center.

“Like music?” The bartender asked.

I whipped around, and he held my cocktail in his hand, shaking it back and forth, the ice cube clinking against the glass.

I blinked, retaking my seat. “Yeah, I do.”

“Ya know,” he began, “we have a guy who plays for us every night. He’s pretty good, if you’d like to stick around for the show.”

He handed me a flyer. On the top, in big bolded letters, was written “Charming Charlie and Cheerful Tunes.”

It took everything in me not to burst out laughing. Never had I read a more ridiculous headline.

The bartender plucked the flyer from my hands, grinning. “Pretty clever, ain’t it?”

“Sure is,” I said, biting my tongue and smiling back. “So, when does he go on?”

The bartender glanced at his wrist, revealing a vintage Omega watch with a gold bracelet. Where could someone like him get that?

“Soon.”

Someone shouted from the opposite end of the bar.

“Howdy, everyone!”

I stiffened. No way.

“Hey, Char!” said another voice. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty shitty, if you ask me! But fine, I guess.”

No one replied.

Footsteps grew louder, and soon I knew someone was standing behind me.

“Who are you?” said Charles, placing a firm grip on my shoulder.

I didn’t reply. I knew he could see my sweaty face in the mirror, and I hoped he would walk away.

Suddenly, he spun my chair around, and I came nose-to-nose with the man I had so hoped to see and not see.

Charles growled, his cheeks flushed and brows snapped together. “You know, it’s rude not to respond to someone when spoke—”

“O-oh,” he murmured, stammering back, and scratching his head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.”

The bartender exited the bar and leaned on the counter, his gaze drifting between Charles and me. 

“Boy, I’ve never seen Charlie spooked like this.” He laughed, pulling a camera out of his pocket. “This is going on the Wall of Shame.”

I turned my seat back around, indirectly staring at Charles's ruffled hair, dyed a brighter blonde, but his eyes were still red-rimmed and saggy; he had never really become sober. And maybe that was another hope I had; that he had become happy and grown into a better man. I had managed to wean myself off of pills, so maybe he had said goodbye to his old buddy Scotch, and the times in-and-out of rehab meant something.

But they hadn’t.

And now he was stumbling up the stairs onto the stage, already drunk and pulling out the piano bench, adjusting its height, and preparing to play some of Charlie's old tunes.

Maybe if I had found him sooner, he wouldn’t have ended up like this, miserable and alone, battling against the choice to trust his dark instincts and give in or finally reach out to the estranged lovers he left behind.

♡♡♡♡

Just an FYI, I plan to finish the fic tomorrow, so mentally prepare yourself for the most stomach-churning angst <3

[mikewheelerisaqueerler]

rip bunny corcoran you would have loved saying 67

[gogolols]

I’m just curious… if I wrote an angsty fic between Richard and Charles, would I find out more Richarles fans exist? 🌝

[pottetto]

THE SNOW in the mountains was melting and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation.

instagram | bluesky | patreon

[gogolols]

I finished TSH, and now I explode... KABOOM—