I think poetry is kind of lit.

Cinema and Literature double major. John Steinbeck evangelist. Slytherin. 19. I desire to name my future child Antigone.

[mrkeatinghasmedead]

A Poem by a Country Lass, 1893.

The inward crumble of the soul

Diminished not the tempter’s role:

Alive, awake, yet full of death

I inward sucked unhappy breath;

To feel the longing of a life

Without unwonted, happy strife:

To have excitement of a kind

That sang like music in my mind;

I felt a soft sunlit star in dreams

It told me to live and to me it clings:

Still etched in my mind I see it

Of lost unholy holy writ.

[untitled-by-unknown-artist]

[notbecauseofvictories]

Can you tell me why Frodo is so important in lotr? Why can't someone else, anyone else, carry the ring to mordor?

but someone else could.

that’s the whole point of frodo—there is nothing special about him, he’s a hobbit, he’s short and likes stories, smokes pipeweed and makes mischief, he’s a young man like other young men, except for the singularly important fact that he is the one who volunteers. there is this terrible thing that must be done, the magnitude of which no one fully understands and can never understand before it is done, but frodo says me and frodo says I will.

(when boromir is thinking of how he can use the ring to defend gondor, when aragorn is thinking of how it brought down proud isildur, when elrond is holding council and gandalf is thinking of how twisted he would become, if he ever dared—)

but then there’s frodo, who desires nothing except what he has already left behind him, and says, I will take the Ring.

it is an offer made out of absolute innocence, utter sincerity. It is made without knowing what it will make of him—and frodo loses everything to the ring, he loses peace and himself and the shire, he loses the ability to be in the world. It’s cruel, the ring is cruel, it searches out every weakness you have and feeds on it, drinks you dry and fills you with its poison instead, the ring is so cruel.

and frodo picks it up willingly. for no other reason except that it has to be done.

(the ring warps boromir into a hopeless grasping dead thing, the power of the palantir turns denethor into an old man, jealous and suspicious, it bends even saruman, once the proudest of the istari, into a mechanised warlord, sitting in his fortress and bent over his perverse creations—all the best of intentions, laid waste)

but there’s a reason gollum exists in the narrative, which is to show—well, to show what frodo might have been. because even as frodo grows mistrustful and wearied, as the burden of this ring grows heavier and heavier, he is never gollum. he is gentle to gollum. he is afraid—god frodo is so afraid for 2/3 of these books he is so tired and afraid, but he keeps moving, he walks though it would pull him into the ground, because he asked for this, he said he would.

someone else could have carried the ring to mordor, I suppose. the idea of a martyr is not dependent on the particular flesh and blood person dying for some greater purpose. but such a thing has to be chosen, lifted onto your shoulders for the right reason, the truest reasons, and followed into the dark, though it would see you burnt through and bled out.

I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way.

[oscar-still-wildin]

this is a Frodo appreciation blog

[mrkeatinghasmedead]

The circle.

You know when you want school to be over so you can have fun? And then you know that regret that follows because when you go home you’re not having all that much fun? Now you have time to contemplate your own existence and be depressed. And now you want all the noise and busyness of school again. But then again, that won’t stop you from wanting school to be over at the end of next spring semester either. And so the circle completes itself.

[mrkeatinghasmedead]

I think we’re all quite insecure and unsure of ourselves. We don’t believe we deserve love. We don’t accept love from others easily. We hide in books and think, “If I could just be her, then I would be enough. Then I could accept this love.” Our inability to process the good in our lives is a symptom of the modern age and its expectations. That love being offered, take it. And return it. Love so hard it hurts. That’s real. The expectations aren’t. The characters aren’t, in the end. But we, we are. And we can have so much and be so much if we just allow ourselves to accept it. We can be human again. Be alive. Live free. Be awake. Love another person. Now is your opportunity. Take it.

[mrkeatinghasmedead]

“Aaron” by Herbert.

Holiness on the head,         Light and perfections on the breast, Harmonious bells below, raising the dead         To lead them unto life and rest:                Thus are true Aarons drest.                Profaneness in my head,         Defects and darkness in my breast, A noise of passions ringing me for dead         Unto a place where is no rest:                Poor priest, thus am I drest.                Only another head         I have, another heart and breast, Another music, making live, not dead,         Without whom I could have no rest:                In him I am well drest.                Christ is my only head,         My alone-only heart and breast, My only music, striking me ev'n dead,         That to the old man I may rest,                And be in him new-drest.                So, holy in my head,         Perfect and light in my dear breast, My doctrine tun'd by Christ (who is not dead,         But lives in me while I do rest),                Come people; Aaron's drest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This poem points to the new life that Jesus gives to those who believe in Him. Herbert beautifully contrasts the old testament priest, Aaron, with the new and better priest, Jesus Christ. As priest over us, Jesus takes the filthy rags of our old garments and casts them away. Then, He replaces those old clothes with new ones: ones made clean by his perfect life lived for us, his death died for us, and his resurrection that brings new life to us.

[artandchocolate]

Victor Hugo, from Les Miserables 

[mrkeatinghasmedead]

Les Miserables has me dead.

[mrkeatinghasmedead]

Last night I had the marked privilege of sitting in the hallway of my dorm and just quoting and reading poetry aloud with my friend. These are the times that fill mens’ souls.

[mrkeatinghasmedead]

A bittersweet evening in college.

> A quiet evening alone.

> A light classical playlist to keep me company. 

> A chunky book.

> A soft sweater.

> An English paper draft that sucks but could be submitted, if I became desperate enough.

> A cup of warm hot chocolate that is calling my name.

> An overwhelming sense of my own insignificance.

[mrkeatinghasmedead]

End of semester mood.

**screaming because 4 weeks is too long a time to wait for the binge-reading classic lit vibes that are coming my way after commencement**

[lovelyarcane]

deep down we’re all pretentious, face it

[surqrised]

I don’t know a perfect person. I only know flawed people who are still worth loving.

John Green (via surqrised)

[mrkeatinghasmedead]

Where English dies.

I feel the wrench of pain in my gut...offense, offense, offense has been taken. I am the villain, or so I have been told. This story being written by others. The use of words neither foul nor mean offends they say, and it saddens me. Language must be allowed to flourish. It must. Or it will die. We must not take offense at small things. We must be longsuffering and unbothered. It will be painful and it will feel stupid. But we must let the little things go. We must give up being triggered over small, inane things, or our humanity and the seed of ourselves will be snuffed out like an orange, flickering light.

[mrkeatinghasmedead]

Oedipus Rex slaps.

“I have a terrible fear the blind seer can see.” - Oedipus Rex, line 823

[mrkeatinghasmedead]

Book reviews.

Trying to write a review for a book on Goodreads currently. I want to sound like a super smart academic, but I really just sound like my brain has been on fire for the last three months. And to be fair, that’s entirely true.

[mrkeatinghasmedead]

Listening to classical dark academia music in the back of the prerequisite class I hate is a whole mood. Also, I'm starving.

[mrkeatinghasmedead]

The Enigma, 1871 (oil on canvas), by Gustave Doré.

(This is on the cover of my Penguin Classics copy of The Three Theban Plays.)