Stars hide your Fires

Mistress of all the novels, the heroine of all the dramas, the vague "she" of all the volumes of verse

[meiselr]

Color Palette Challenge #5 - Narcissa Black

[terukie-deactivated20190831]

notes on medusa 

[amphitheas]

Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

[megairea]

– Eugenia C. Delamotte, Perils of the Night: A Feminist Study of Nineteenth-Century Gothic, 1990.

[gothhabiba]

“The gothic was dead, to begin with.

It is generally agreed that the gothic, understood narrowly as a narrative form given principal expression through the novel, had a life-span of approximately 56 years. It was born or, rather, given life, in 1764, with the publication of Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto. It died, or was dismembered and interred, somewhere around 1818 or 1820, with the publication of, respectively, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein or Charles Maturin’s Melmoth the Wanderer…Already, towards the end of its rather artificial life, gothic narrative’s often galvanic animation was perceived by some of its readers as not being fully charged, a highly visible sign of which was the parody of its already monstrous form, most noticeably in Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey, written in 1798/9, but not published until 1817. Austen’s work is a parody, aimed at the work of Anne Radcliffe in particular, as is well known. However, any parody of that which is already internally parodic (intentionally or not); that is to say, any parody of that which is marked by excess, heterogeneity, fragmentation, delirium and what Margaret Russett terms appositely a ‘degraded sensibility’, is hard to imagine. The gothic, as a body of fiction, is always already excessive, grotesque, overspilling its own boundaries and limits. Austen’s knowing comedy perhaps misses the impropriety of gothic sensibility even as it registers the decay of a genre which is best understood not so much through the perceived signs of its formulaic decline as by the corrupt condition by which gothic attains any animation whatsoever.

The overly familiar relationship between the gothic as both a form and sensibility and Austen’s wit at its expense is worth acknowledging once more, not because of the author’s parody, but because of the tension – readable here between the distancing effect which the parodic desires, and the seduction of the writer or, for that matter, the reader – by the gothic. The gothic, though dying even from its first moments of animation, leaves its traces in its audience, only to return again and again. As Jacques Derrida has suggested in a published interview, if the reader notices, day after day, the constant announcement that someone or something is dying, or dead, and if this dying or death continues to be an event, one begins to wonder what is happening. Even at the moment when it appears to have given up the ghost, the gothic, keeps on returning, even as it dies, or appears to be decaying. It starts to be celebrated, or perhaps fed upon, by the spectre of criticism, for example, or else it feeds upon itself, adopting a knowingly self-referential manner.”

–Julian Wolfreys, “‘I could a tale unfold’ or, the Promise of Gothic”, in Victorian Gothic: Literary and Cultural Manifestations in the Nineteenth Century (Palgrave 2000), pp. xi-xii

[gothhabiba]

“However, while for some the gothic was to become unbearable, first in the 1820s and, subsequently, in the twentieth century through critical assessment of the gothic (this is a narrative concerned with aesthetic proprieties which literary criticism has told compulsively and repeatedly until recent years), for many others, it remained – and continues to remain – unburiable. The promise of the gothic is comprehended in all its uncanny potentiality as both trait and retrait. The gothic mode leaves its mark, in the nineteenth century, in the most conventional of narratives, the most ordinary of photographs. But even as we read that trace, we only read where the gothic has been, we only comprehend its effect in the places from which it has already retreated. We understand the gothic therefore as always already spectral through and through. All that is left in the Victorian text is the promise of the gothic, the disturbing trace, the haunting absence. Such a narrative surrounding the gothic is, itself, a gothic narrative, concerned with constant returns, uncanny disturbances, dismembered remains and improper forms, deferrals and differences. The essays in this collection recognize the condition of the gothic and, in response to that, make their own collective promise – a promise at once shared and multiplied – that while there are indeed yet more tales to be told, more skeletons to bring out of closets, there are also new and interesting manifestations of the same old stories. The promise is also one which suggests that, in returning to the Victorians so as to understand their own gothic compulsions, their spectral and technological manifestations of the uncanny, we begin to comprehend that the promise of the gothic itself returns once again – to haunt our comprehension, to trouble the certainties on which we rely for our identities, and to continue returning in ever stranger articulations of revenant alterity.”

–Ibid., p. xv

[auguriesoflight]

An excerpt from a playlist I created, inspired by Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch.

Listen to the full playlist here.

The Goldfinch: empty museum halls, crowded streets of New York, white noise, sunsets obscured by skyscrapers, sweltering midnights, pale skin covered in chlorine and dried blood, confessions hidden behind a veil of cigarette smoke, an unarticulated longing for a person you will never see again.

[elegantblonde]

I want a Gothic squad, roaming around dark castles by candlelight, sultry makeup, silk and lace gowns, literature for days, where a constant and ominous fog clings to the grounds

[lavender1955]

dark academia x spring

grey sweaters, oxford shoes, cherry blossoms, cold and sunny days, lingering fingertips, seventies alternative music, braided hair, short nights, bruised knees, reciting poetry in front of the class, boys with slightly grown out hair, april showers, art museums, golden light at dusk seeping through the curtains in your dorm room, bouquets of pale peonies and baby’s breath, coffee cake, canopy trees dripping with water post-rainstorm, tabby cats, cold hardwood floors on bare feet, rosaries resting on the sternum, lacey bralettes, Nocturne en mi bémol mejeur opus 9 n’2: Balled en Sol Mineur No. 1, waking up early and going to bed late, fallen flower petals in your hair, raspberries, champaign, the iliad, polaroid photos, pink cheeks, taking walks by yourself right after dawn, wool scarves, jane austen, the smell after it rains, the first warm day of the season, vanilla candles, a single rose in front of a tomb stone,

[emptyblog10101010101]

dark academia & science 

as much as we all adore the profusion of the arts and humanities across this genre, please stop for moment and consider this alongside them: science, and more specifically, medicine, in relation to dark academic texts. 

think about pale-eyed boys and dark-haired girls who always carry the scent of formaldehyde around with them like cologne or perfume. it is this, and not any trace of cigarette smoke that might cling to the collars of their peers, that makes them smell like death. for whatever else they might be, they’re not stupid, and they’ve seen the damage that those things can do to even the healthiest pair of human lungs. 

and when you think about them, think also of dark and bitter chocolate; of spice jars stacked up in the kitchen; and of one hundred and one different herbal teas, all brewed at home from the plants that sit on every window sill, and every spare surface that is not taken up by stacks and stacks of books. 

think of late nights spent in the darkest nooks and crannies of the library. not just in the study of anatomy and physiology, either, but also in the study of astronomy, psychology, languages, philosophy, literature … 

think of those scholars, obsessed with mary shelley’s frankenstein, some of whom now posses the knowledge to recreate it. or so they think. think of them in graveyards in the early hours, digging, knee- and elbow-deep in the dirt. 

think of the eery blue light of bunsen burner flames flickering in a room that is otherwise dark, while substances and solutions bubble away above them. the girls who brew these potions form a new kind of coven of witches, whose goddess is Science, and whose goal is Knowledge. 

think of plague doctor masks hanging on the walls. 

think of cold hands and chapped lips and some skin being so pale that it’s almost translucent; of veins that stand out like a roadmap in their wrists, coloured in purple, blue and green; of hollow eyes, which are also purple, and this because of exhaustion. 

they seem so fragile. but what about the boys with stitches and scars underneath their smart clothes, and slings upon their arms? these are boys who will break their own bones and each others’ in the name of perfecting their craft. 

think of the experiments that they will all conduct, both the physical and the psychological; think of all the journals, filled by several spidery hands at once, by obsessive scrawls that spiral rapidly towards the illegible as they discover something they could have scarcely even imagined before. 

think of how foreign latin and greek feel upon their tongues until they really immerse themselves in the history of medicine. the different traditions. the diverse cultures. soon they are reading and speaking these languages with ease, and ancient persian and mandarin too. 

think of the diagrams they draw, the details of which have been painstakingly copied from their source text. think of boys with pencils tucked behind their ears, and of girls with their long hair trailing into their ink wells. 

think of dark academia & art. 

think of dark academia & literature. 

think of dark academia & philosophy. 

think of dark academia & science. 

think of dark academia & medicine. 

[iamthelordoftheflies]

think of the crisp white shirts, covered in dark blue-red-black jumpers to cover the blood stains.

think of the shoes and socks that no longer fit because the ankles that once were in them are now swollen from being twisted and broken to figure out how joints work.

think of the scuffs on the floors from shoes moving back and forth, as if walking will find answers to questions posed by tired eyes and twitching fingers.

[ambxtxo]

I want to be a student of science who studies by candlelight in her ancient dormitory . I want to wear my hair frizzy under headbands, wire-framed spectacles, oversized black sweaters, pleated skirts over scraped knees I want to use fountain pens and typewriters and ancient tomes. I want to go on walks at dawn around a willowed creek with my pet cat. I want to make hearty stews for myself every week and eat them with homemade loaves of wheat bread every day for lunch. I want to go on picnics with my friends and talk about French literature in Russian as we devour rich, red apples and berries that stain our lips. I would like to go often, at other times, go to the college’s graveyard. I want to spend my time on weekends in the library: a particularly ancient corner with an embroidered hankie to wipe my nose on as my sinuses react to the dust which swirls around me. I want meditate for half an hour by eucalyptus scented candles every night, my only break from academics. At night, I want to be ghostly; I want to famously haunt the corridors at midnight as I ponder existence.

[brewdarrymore]

The Raven Boys screencaps // Maggie Stiefvater

[down-the-rabbith0le]

[lesbian-donna-tartt-deactivated]

women of dark academia moodboard

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“They all want to play Hamlet. They have not exactly seen their fathers killed Nor their mothers in a frame-up to kill, Nor an Ophelia dying with a dust gagging the heart, Not exactly the spinning circles of singing golden spiders, Not exactly this have they got at nor the meaning of the flowers–O flowers, flowers slung by a dancing girl–in the saddest play the inkfish, Shakespeare, ever wrote; Yet they all want to play Hamlet because it is sad like all actors are sad and to stand by an open grave with a joker’s skull in the hand and then to say over slow and say over slow wise, keen, beautiful words masking a heart that’s breaking, breaking, This is something that calls to their blood. They are acting when they talk about it and they know it is acting to be particular about it and yet: They all want to play Hamlet.”

— Carl Sandburg, from They All Want To Play Hamlet

[ithrowmyviolets]

– Vita & Virginia (2019) dir. Chanya Button

– Vita Sackville-West recalling the solar eclipse she witnessed together with Virginia Woolf in 1927, c.1941, Recollections of Virginia Woolf

[haecceitism]

last night while doing some research on Horace (the poet) i discovered the latin phrase ‘pulvis et umbra sumus,’ which means ‘we are dust and shadow,’ and i really love this quote now because i think it’s a rather poetic way of saying that we as humans aren’t as great as we often think we are (not as individuals, but as a race—i can’t help but think of global warming or the endangerment of whales, both of which are things we have caused, and for which we refuse to take responsibility). for me, the quote also feels low key nihilistic, because it does seem to indicate that life is meaningless since we are made of dust and shadow (and thus it’s a reminder that we will return to the dust when we die)

[sanctificantur]

types of people as my favorite latin verbs

mūtō, mūtāre, mūtāvī, mūtātum (to transform): learns languages quick, wants to travel the world, over thinker, shy at first, always right and has evidence to prove it, in love with anyone they meet, creates entire worlds in their heads, picky eater, always deserves more recognition than they get, finds the same friends in different lifetimes

molliō, mollīre, mollīvī, mollītum (to soften, make calm): soft comforters, watching the first snow fall, cuddling with their loved ones, the absolute weirdest humor, pinks and pastels, cloud gazer, will love anyone or anything who needs it, doe eyes, biggest heart in the world, just wants to help people see how great they are

surgō, surgere, surrēxī, surrēctum (to surge): driving with music blasting and windows down 24/7, quick obsessions with random people, living life to the fullest, popcorn mixed with chocolates, easily disappointed in themselves, dreams of their own family but fears commitment, always finds ways to make their friends laugh, drive in movie theaters

tollō, tollere, sustulī, sublātum (to elevate or to destroy): falling asleep on the couch, picking weeds and putting them in a vase on the kitchen table, artist, stubborn, jack of all trades, stronger than they think, bright eyes, finds peace in nature, hand-me-down overalls, never brushes their hair, catching bugs and freeing them outside, manic energy, knowing the lyrics to songs from childhood, drinks coffee after its gone cold

recūsō, recūsāre, recūsāvī, recūsātum (to refuse): will stand against anyone who harms others, thoroughly contemplated dropping out of school to become a groupie, video games from childhood, changes major a million times, passionate to a fault, will try anything once, pretends like they don’t have crushes, smarter then they give themselves credit for, plans to travel the world, possibly dionysis

tangō, tangere, tetigī, tāctum (to touch): reheating tea in microwaves, walking out of exams happier than when they entered them, 5 o’clock shadow, learning chess with friends, instantaneous bonds, always looks put together on the surface, loyalty beyond reason, lying awake until the sun rises, smartest person in the room and doesn’t believe it