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The Earthsea Cycle By Cami | morchlav

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for either way you choose you cannot win

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The fatal discourse between sex and Eros is the first enigma which [Dmitri Karamazov] encounters. The second and even more terrible is ahead of him. Sex is motion about a circle, continual and without any issue; Eros is an ascension, a ladder, leading to a height. Eros has an aim and an ideal—Beauty. It creates Beauty and worships it. And here is the second enigma. “Beauty—this is a terrible and awful thing,” says Mitya, “terrible because it is indefinite, and to define is impossible, for God has posed only enigmas. Here the shores meet, here all contradictions live side by side … What is presented to the mind as shameful, to the heart is uninterrupted beauty … What’s awful is that Beauty not only is terrible, but also a mysterious thing. Here the devil struggles with God, and the field of battle is the human heart.”

This is one of the most brilliant pages of Dostoevsky. The mystery of beauty, the tragic duality of the aesthetic consciousness is expressed with astounding force. Dmitri knows only one way to God—through Eros. In his amorous inspiration he longs to press himself “to the garment of the Divinity” and recoils with horror: his divinity is two-faced, Beauty comprises the ideal of the Madonna and the ideal of Sodom. “Is there beauty in Sodom?” asks Mitya and answers: “Believe me that for the vast multitude of people it is found in Sodom; did you know this secret or not?”

Konstantin Mochulsky, “The Brothers Karamazov”; from Dostoevsky, His Life and Work (tr. Michael A. Miniham)

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The House of Lamentation.

Mammon x gender neutral mc.

TW: trypophobia (mentions of holes in the skin), cannibalism? Demons eating humans. Mc is dead but not really (free interpretation), religious themes.

Summer mornings always work the same for me; the sheets stick to my body and I slowly get away from them, meanwhile the streets are completely silent. In summer people left the neighborhood because they had holidays, the birds don't sing since s long time, cars rest... I get up and I lay on the couch, closing my eyes, my mom hums while she cleans. I know all her songs.

This morning is quite different, after liberating myself of the sheets a cold sweat ran down my back. I got out of my room bare footed, my mom's eyes smiled at me more than usual. There wasn't music, just an intense noise coming from my inside; it has been years since I heard such a strong buzzing, it stifles my skin, it sings.

I looked at my mother and I went to the bathroom, my flesh burnt and I couldn't breath: singing, right in my stomach, all my body vibrates with it.

Then I went to the empty street, with the sleeping cars; I thought about the day before and hands, that like the sheets, stick to my tights. In summer everything remains dead, the grannies won't go to talk in the street because there is too much sun. Maybe the hands were a had dream, the asphalt amplifies how hot it is and it envelopes everything, the street is narrowing.

I think about the birds singing, I think about a world with noise which wouldn't be empty like the broken melodies of my mother's humming.

I walked until I found a small river, one I haven't seen ever. I wasn't afraid so I sat in the humid earth to get my foot in the green water, down to my knees. Then I looked at my hands, waiting for them to grow big, emaciated holes, but nothing happened.

I thought that because I saw a hive, big and overflowing, bleeding on the river where my foot rested. For a moment I wanted to open it a go inside, since I can't become a hive; I think someone opened me too and something came inside, now it's making noise so I'm never lonely again, it overflows my mother's songs.

If I'm dreaming where will I wake up? In my bed? In my father's bed? Will I be twelve again? I think there has never been a river here, I think something bad has happened.

What if I open the hive? Will all the stingers break my skin? When I was younger my parents took me to lakes so I bathed and had fun, showing the world my sun kissed belly, I look down at the river. How would it feel? To drown in honey? My organs suffocate under the noise, my skin cries and I think: there has never been a river here, or a hive, something bad has happened.

I kept walking until I reached a home, there was a man outside, his skin is rich and sun bathed, with shining eyes, he looks at me, flooded with curiosity.

—What are you doing around here?

—I'm lost.

—Then you are in the right place.

—Am I dead?

The question makes him burst out laughing, his laugh is the first thing to sounds real since I got up.

—Don't worry your pretty head over that—he gets up and walks over to me—here is all you need.

I look over to the huge victorian house.

—You want my soul?

His eyes shines.

—Your soul? Aren't you a little dumb?—he flickles my forehead, smiling—you need some rest, don't you?

When we get inside, he shows me a room. My own, he says.

—This is not only my house, but the guests too. It has a life of it own.

The walls get colder.

—What's is name, then?

He throws be a mischievous smile before answering:

—I like to call her—he caress a wall, smiling, his teeth are precious like small drops of milk—the Hose of Lamentation. It will give you anything you want.

I slowly lay down on the bed.

—Now sleep, there is so much waiting for you.

Before falling asleep I think about going back home, or to the river.

He closes the door.

The next time I open my eyes I'm still here. He is already waiting for me.

—So what do you want to do, little boring thing?

—Is there a garden?

—Let's find out.

There was a garden. He holds my hand softly, all the flowers are unborn yet, I caress the prick.

—Will you stay?

I only nod, afraid of saying the truth: I don't think I can go back.

—Good, you'll get used. The house is amazing, there is a casino in the basement just for me! It gives you anything—he gets closer to me, I can smell him—and you will be ok.

And I believe him, just like that, his name sounds weird and heavy on my tongue but when he says mine is like a soft eater flow running down.

—Are you sure I'm not dead?

For the first time, he looks at me with a more serious expression. He has a little smile dancing on his lips, I think he is very beautiful, I like his eyes, does he like mine too?

—Does it matter? If you are dead?

—I guess it doesn't.

As days passed I found myself growing more and more comfortable, the food was unique: my grandma's cookies, that cake which made me so happy in my birthday... For me, we are the only ones in the house, I don't see any guests.

He is soft with me, he watches me sleep sometimes and when I wake up he is still there, as if his day started when mine did.

He might be a little rough or hot headed sometimes but when he looks at me in the morning, with a mix of awe, affection and need, my bones move and ache in all my body.

[Then let me eat your heart, Ophelia, which shed my tears.]

The story goes like this: it's one of many nights, he looks at you. A fresh wound, pink and shining, water falling, needles.

The only meaning of pain and love is that they are endless, and the only comfort to this is their own eternity.

He looks at you knowing that time is running up, what is a body? A broken plate, a shattered shell. He gets closer but he only smells his own hunger, feeling his heavy tongue: hunger emanates from it own self, like pain.

But he has been wonderful for you, you got all you wanted and needed. Slowly getting to your soul and desires.

This night is different, because you wake up noticing how close he is. His eyes are shining, liquid gold.

You think about his teeth, small, pointy, there are so many, they are precious like milk drops. The loneliness in your house also comes to your mind.

The house BUZZES and you know that it will devour you. Is the payment for the company, for the cookies, for a cake of your eleven birthday.

Once again you look at him, and the necessity bleeds inside of you, you want more. Is not enough with the walks you wake, or with the way he looks at you sleeping, you need more.

He reeks like hunger, but not the one that makes your tummy ache and your mouth salivates, he craves your necessity, your avarice, the happiness you hold because you have everything thanks TO HIM, to the HOUSE, you feel like a fish, with your soft belly exposed to a fork and a knife, exposed to his teeth.

So you bring your hand up, closely followed by the volcanoes of gold that are his eyes, your insides scream. But you touch his lips softly, waiting for his mouth to be opened and you think: Jesus body is the bread, his blood is the wine.

When the mouth opens you pass your fingertips through the teeth, pearls, it's a humid mouth, warm, the tongue gets closer to your phalanges and you think: the bacchae kills a small mouse, to eat it's raw skin, cleaning it's little bones. That mouse is God, we eat God.

The house keeps buzzing, exactly the same way your insides did that morning when you got up.

His jaws close up around your hand and you scream, this is all you have ever wanted.

#obey me fanfic #obey me shall we date #mammon x gender neutral reader #obey me x mc #mammon avatar of greed #om! mammon #mammon angst #mammon x mc #shall we date mammon #obey me #house of lamentation #obey me house of lamentation

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wrote a cool upsetting thing about mammon and the house and mc but it's too long should I upload it in two parts or just a huge one sifndidnfjf

#obey me shall we date #om! mammon #mammon x gender neutral reader #house of lamentation

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HE IS THINKING ABOUT YOU A LOT LATELY.

"He and I are closer than friends. we are enemies linked together, the same sin binds us."

Satan and gender neutral MC.

as days passed you though it would subside,

even if it was slowly.

Yet the days has been passing, cold days

with even colder stares,

and you are still mad.

You thought it would be easier, to get used to the arrogance and constant fear of being attacked again. But you felt so small, powerless,

That's the worst of all: you are small and powerless and well, you are in hell after all.

He knows you have been feeling like that, too.

In the mornings you smell sweet, the more condescending he is with you? The sweeter you smell.

He wonders what your rage feels like, do you feel like air is leaving you? Do you shake? Do you want to cry or scream? It feels intoxicating, like a loop?

It is a tight hug that snaps your ribs?

Really, he has been dying to know in those dark nights in his room. You shouldn't judge him at all, he is rage.

He wants to hold you in his arms so he can whisper little things to you,

to feel your fists clenching,

to caress your burning skin

with his eyes,

with his words.

He thinks of an open pomegranate,

bleeding.

Sometimes his mind wonder a little bit too far, he would like to chase you a little bit

for you to be under him,

by how mad you are all the time it's almost like that already.

His fingers would be shaking if he were to touch you,

he knows he can't.

He can not bring the rage out of you, he can't ignite it more like he would love to,

you think you are angry?

Let him envelope you,

there are things you can't even imagine to feel.

He fantasizes a lot,

hugging you,

you'd let the anger surround yourself, you'd tangle your fingers in his blond hair

then you'll be an open pomegranate

bleeding,

staining his fingers

so he can taste a little bit

of the anger forming between your ribs.

#obey me fanfic #obey me x mc #satan x reader #mc gender neutral #satan obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me satan #obey me satan x mc

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Turning blood stained water into gold.

About how greed is silent as poison.

Mammon x MC (gender neutral)

TW: Mentions of blood.

You couldn’t say when it started,  maybe it was in one of those days in the subway, sitting silently while looking at yourself in the window, people surrounds you and yet you are awfully alone,

so much people

and so much silence,

it felt asphyxiating.

Still, life is great you wake up in the morning and comb your hair in a manner that is, maybe, a little bit rough  and would make your mother scowl at you.

Then you go for breakfast in the sweet summer morning, your mouth and lips are dry, the insects buzz outside  or maybe they don’t perhaps they are being drown in the dirty air, in the killer noise of a city.

Where you are at doesn’t matter at all,

does it?

Maybe it started while you were dressing yourself,

do you want bigger clothes? Smaller clothes? A different body? Is yours awkward and painful? You look at yourself in the mirror, standing alone in the room, 

a distant voice echoes inside: What do you want? How much do you want?

Scared you look around, confused by the sound. It’s the room? Or is it you?

One day you are walking, you stop at one of these many shops. There is something beautiful in the showcase; your insides squirms with need. 

It’s so nice, so nice, you would reach out for it. You can feel your eyes caressing it but your hands are deep inside your pockets.

23:05.

Tonight you are wondering about it, what did you see? What did you really see? Someone by your side in the subway? Your mother, combing your hair sweetly? Did you hear insects? Or a killer noise, a reminder of all the people around you? Clothes? A better body? Money?

The water of the bath hugs you, you are shivering in the darkness, you really don’t know when it started but now you can’t stop it,

the wanting, the need,

the voice sounds louder,

you are sure now: it’s inside. 

What do you want? How much do you want?

You want to scream,

you want a lot and it’s  tearing you open yet you really couldn't answer if someone asked what you crave from. The voice is hammering it ways out of your body, your mouth is bleeding, have you bitten yourself?

You shiver in the warm water and suddenly you know, he is there behind the bathroom curtain. He has bright eyes and he could turn your blood stained water into gold or maybe he will just rot you from the inside with need.

Your heart churns  and you see light. A silent poison, we  crave for things,  for experiences, we want to grab everything we can with our hands, even if it freezes or burns 

and we call it freedom,  reality is sadder.

“Humans desire is bigger than them,”

you hear him.

“and infinite search for pleasure,

for everything, 

it really  does not matter where you are, does it?”

Under this heaven, there was never an option.

He holds your face, you can feel the warm skin against your flesh.

“What do you want?”

#obey me #obey me shall we date #om! mammon #not romance #corruption #im bad at tags #mammon x gender neutral reader #mammon angst #mammon avatar of greed #dark theme #demonsbeingdemons #obey me au #obey me x mc #im a little bit communist #obey me fanfic #obey me fandom #maybe possesion if you squint? #possesion

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Dostoevsky just sat around writing children as absolute angels who are corrupted by the influence the bad world has on them, writing about their helplessness their frustrations with the adult systems and asked us to create a better world for them to be kind, to be understanding and compassionate, so the little ones have joy and how love is a teacher and you must foster it in your heart or the kids will not have love, my guy fyodor was really onto something I think we should talk about this more

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What she says: I'm fine

What she means: Quintilian said that Ovid's Medea showed just how much potential Ovid had and even Tacitus agreed that it slapped. It has an amazing subject and the intertext alone would have been enough reason to devour it line by line, not to mention his engagement with yet another genre. But if it was so great, why have we only got a few lines here and there? Ovid's corpus is amongst the best preserved of the ancient authors - what happened to this masterpiece? Why do the gods deny us the baller lines that we KNOW Medea must have? Is the text still out there, gathering dust and mould on some forgotten shelf in a dingy monastery, or is it lost forever? Ovid never even forayed back into the genre of tragedy. How would it shape our understanding of Ovid's other works if we knew how this one excursion had gone? Why does the manuscript tradition hate MILFs? Why does it hate ME and MY NEEDS????

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I hate how the booktokification of the “unhinged woman” genre has completely reduced the concept of female rage to just “girlboss” without taking seriously how important it is to unequivocally portray female rage.

Throughout the history of literature, we’ve been given countless instances of women in despair and in sadness but save for a few writers (take Euripides, for example), we’ve rarely ever been given angry women who aren’t the villains or the foil for the perfect poised passive princess. Female rage has constantly been subdued and erased or warped into “she’s just batshit crazy” in pretty much every society.

And now that publishing and media marketing has reduced women showing rage in books to the “white hypersexual girlboss with a knife”, instead of uplifting the way women are allowed to have more dimension and sympathy in their visible anger than ever in literature, the media still isn’t taking this subgenre seriously.

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electra and clytemnestra obviously are pretty different between the different plays, but fucking hell orestes is really a completely different character in them, especially comparing sophocles’ electra with euripides and libation bearers. in aeschylus, his tragedy is really that no matter what choice he makes, there is no peace for him. he didn’t choose the situation, but now he is stuck between the furies of his mother or the furies of his father. he is still an exile by the end, but now he’s burdened with his mother’s blood and her revenge as well. 

in euripides, he’s, ya know, a euripides character, so he’s pretty terrible. he kills aegisthus during a sacrifice as his guest and is happy to participate in electra’s fucked up baby scheme. but, of course, it’s euripides, so he has a horrible moment of clarity where he has to confront the reality of his actions as opposed to the high minded moral stance he’s assumed up to now. he’s reduced to trying to cover up his mother’s corpse with his sister so they don’t have to see her injuries, like children hiding a broken pot. and, of course, it’s euripides, so the core of the story is that apollo and the gods are terrible. he ordered orestes to carry out this vengeance regardless of the pollution it brings to orestes or the impact on his emotional state. this orestes ends up even more alone than aeschylus—he doesn’t even have pylades, who stays behind to marry electra. this orestes has done absolutely horrible things and been left to suffer by the gods but only realized this after the fact and now he just has to somehow live with this. 

and then there’s sophocles: the thing with this orestes is that he never has that moment the other plays have where he looks at his bloody hands and breaks. this orestes is able to use his mother’s corpse as a prop in a cruelly ironic joke on aegisthus without any regrets. there is one place where he falters from his militaristic, black-and-white morality behavior—when he recognizes electra. the paedagogus doesn’t seem to have accounted for her in his plans, which makes sense if we’re looking at the gender politics of the whole thing: the paedagogus, orestes, and pylades are cast as entirely masculine (in the greek view). they are very much on the ἔργον side of the λόγος - ἔργον dichotomy: men of action with no time for the emotions of women. electra has tried to gender herself in the same way in her speeches, but of course, that’s in speech, not action. she’s ultimately as femininely focused on speech and emotion as clytemnestra and chrysothemis. she disrupts orestes’ plans and makes him suddenly see the impact of his plan to get revenge through any means necessary. her grief at his ‘death’ and joy at his presence is the only thing that moves him from his path in the whole play because he wasn’t raised to deal with this. the paedogogus has crafted him into a perfect soldier who views his actions against clytemnestra and aegisthus as justified counterstrikes against an enemy. he has no emotional connection to clytemnestra or, really, to agamemnon. he’s much more focused on ‘profit’ and recapturing his political and financial power than the other version of orestes. electra isn’t a part of this plan, so it’s his meeting with her, not his mother, that breaks though his training. unfortunately for everyone, electra is just as shaped by a relentless desire for revenge as orestes. she can connect with him emotionally, but she is just as bloodthirsty and ‘profit’ focused as him. her overwhelming need to destroy those who destroyed her, combined with orestes’ horribly pragmatic approach to murder, leads inevitably to the end of the play, where orestes returns into the house of pelops, with no furies at his back. he isn’t haunted—he’s a true heir to this cursed, bloody, vengeance driven house

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Orpheus and Eurydice (1905) by Guido Philipp Schmitt (1834-1922)

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Hey there, I am in desperate need for book recommendations, specifically classics and preferably with some sort of queer history element to them, It would be awesome if you could give me a couple? Or your followers? Thank you, I love your blog!

What a wonderful question, thank you very much!  A selection, then in roughly chronological order – some more obvious than others:

PROSE

- Frankenstein, Mary Shelley – OK, not by a queer author, but it’s one of the major Gothic texts often studied by queer theorists because it’s very queer-coded.  Shelley was close friends with the exceptionally and rather openly bisexual Byron too, and wrote/plotted this whilst on holiday with him

- The Dupin stories, Edgar Allan Poe – Not explicitly gay and not by a queer author (as far as we know), but about as gay as possible.  Love at first sight between the protagonists, living habits that would have made a late 19th-century audience gasp… and the principal forerunner to Sherlock Holmes

- Study in the History of the Renaissance, Walter Pater – Not a narrative per se, but the final chapter was condemned for influencing impressionable young men into certain vices.  Huge influence on Wilde.  (Pater was also his tutor).

- Carmilla, Sheridan Le Fanu – Lesbian vampires, basically.  And by one of the classic Gothic writers of the 19th century

- Anything by Wilde, of course, although the most clearly gay are probably The Picture of Dorian Gray, De Profundis and lesser-known The Portrait of Mr W.H. (about Shakespeare’s gay sonnets)

- The Turn of the Screw, Henry James – gay themes by a gay author

- Hauntings, Vernon Lee – And the rest of her Gothic writings.  She was a fin-de-siecle, Decadent lesbian writer and her stories are really queer!  Two obvious ones are The Wicked Voice and The Doll (you can find these online quite easily)

- Maurice, EM Forster – Often cited as the first gay novel [with a happy ending], written in the early 1910s though only published after his death in the ’70s.  Just wonderful.  Honestly, cannot fault it.  And a happy, GAY ending!  And a wonderful film with Hugh Grant and Rupert Graves.      

- The short stories of Saki – Not very gay in themselves, but he was a witty gay man with a dark sense of humour and his sketches are brilliant.  Sadly he was killed in the War

- Mrs Dalloway, Virginia Woolf – Explicit, main-character wlw, and Woolf was very bisexual

- Orlando, Virginia Woolf – One of the queerest in this list.  Described as a novel-length love letter from Woolf to her lover Vita Sackville-West, this is a historical, fantasy, gently philosophical gender-switching romp and it’s wonderful

- The Well of Loneliness, Radclyffe Hall  – I have heard that it isn’t desperately good, and it’s definitely not a happy ending, but this was a landmark book of lesbian literature and caused huge controversy at the time.  Woolf and Forster defended it.

- Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier – She was bi, and this has definite, noticeable bisexual coding in it

- Christopher and His Kind, Christopher Isherwood – His experiences as a gay Englishman living in Germany before and during the rise of the Nazis.  His other novels, published much earlier, contain queer characters, but until this one he always self-censored.  He decided that should end.

- Other Voices, Other Rooms, Truman Capote – Haven’t actually read it, but it’s about the struggles and experiences of Capote in his youth as a gay man/boy.

- The Colour Purple, Alice Walker – Yet to read this one too, but it’s a more modern novel by a woman of colour and prominently contains wlw.  Plus a film with Oprah Winfrey.

POETRY

- The poetry of Sappho, origin of the words “sapphic” and “lesbian”, need I really say more?

- Shakespeare’s gay sonnets (the first 126.  Sonnet 20 is a nice, very queer one)

- Lord Byron – Extremely bisexual, dating a man when he died, not sure if any of his poetry is very queer?  But still worth a look because his poetry’s great

- Emily Dickinson – Probably, almost definitely, a lesbian

- Alfred Lord Tennyson – I’ve heard In Memoriam is very gay

- Walt Whitman

- As much as we all hate him, Lord Alfred Douglas’ sonnet Two Loves is important as it was the origin of “The love that dare not speak its name”, and famously used against Wilde in his trial

- Wilfred Owen – Gay WWI poet with a big crush on Siegfried Sassoon. The Boy and His Arms is very homoerotic

- Siegfried Sassoon – Gay WWI poet on whom Owen had a big crush.  My followers can advise better on his queerest poems!

- Gertrude Stein – Her poetry is an acquired taste, but she was a lesbian

- WH Auden – Gay and writes really lovely poetry

Those are just the first few I could think of.  Anyone please add suggestions! Thanks!

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My 5 year plan .. being dope .. having fun .. chilling .. smiling

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Tickle chicken >:3

I made a semi-realistic Therizinosaurus, as they’re my second-favorite theropods and I felt it would be fun to try to make an anatomically-correct pointy birb giant :)

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Pregnant woman: eats rabbit

Rabbit soul staring at developing baby: This is where the fun begins

Baby a few years later: Has weird eyes and scampers

More

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this is basically what coming out is