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#sentimental literature
rosepompadour · 8 months
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- her voice, like cake and vanilla and cherries.
Eve Babitz, Black Swans
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uaravsh · 6 months
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"I was a romantic and sentimental creature, with a tendency towards solitude."
- Isabel Allende, The House of the Spirits (@silentroad )
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communistkenobi · 4 months
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actually one thing that has been very elucidating while reading academic scholarship on anti-vaxx movements post-Covid is that a lot of seemingly “apolitical” or non-fascist participation in anti-vaxx and vaccine skeptical protests/demonstrations/social media activity is the result of decades of neoliberal governance - everyone is a ‘critical consumer citizen,’ a subjectivity that produces a public who is deeply invested in ‘shopping for alternatives’ and ‘getting the best deal,’ meaning that mass vaccination programs and mandates, even when universal and socialised, are viewed with suspicion by the public. These people are then primed to listen to the fascists who lurk among these movements, even if they’re a minority. I think one of the larger, more devastating takeaways of the pandemic is that our current situation in North America - low vaccination rates, high infection rates, lots of Covid variants - is the direct result of decades-long neoliberal projects to gut public infrastructure and turn everything into a privatised consumer product. Public goods like universal vaccination programs are therefore seen not as such but as authoritarian, anti-competitive disruptions of a free and open marketplace. To call it a PR disaster would be massively underselling it, but the public appears to have disappeared, replaced instead with an infinite mass of individuals in a market who all have to come to their own decisions about every aspect of their life, even at the cost of everyone around them. what a miserable place we’re in
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jojo-the-bird · 2 months
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I think that the meaning of life doesn’t have some profound reason behind it, no, I think it’s much simpler than that. I think it’s because god one day saw the sun rise and sun set and decided that this is something to be shared with because no matter where you are in the world the sun will rise and the sun will set and we all see the same stars every night. And I think that’s what makes us human. Not the overly spectacle things but the little ones. The ones you have to stop and admire just for this moment as you suddenly are aware of your surroundings and realize how lucky you are to be alive. To look around and see that your surrounded by life, no matter how lonely you are your never really alone.
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lamentofspring · 2 months
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‘I stand there sometimes now, where the two dead trees are leaning close together / there is nothing in all the world / that means so much as that one word, 'to-gether,' and when you add 'love' to it, you have heaven’
— myrtle reed, from flower of the dusk
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Faery Soul
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here I am
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useless as can be
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to the capitalist agenda
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sfsolstice · 2 months
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exurb1a, from "Climbing Gym" in Poems for the Lost Because I'm Lost Too
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deadpanwalking · 7 months
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Good evening, why do you think americans are obsessed with Doctor Zhivago and what do you think of the novel?
I'm being charitable when I say that there are maybe five Russian books that John Liquor American can readily name, and all of them have been made into movies and/or musicals. With Zhivago, part of the reason it became a cultural touchstone so quickly has to do with the circumstances of its publication in the United States during the Cold War, closely followed by the epic David Lean film, in which Omar Sharif is so hot that it hardly matters that the movie itself is mid.
In regards to Zhivago's specific appeal to American sensibilities, I think a lot of it has to do with that adage about how an English language romance begins with a kiss and ends in a wedding, while a Russian language romance will begin with a kiss and end in Siberia. The weddings are fun but after all that stale cake, you want to want, and you want to be left wanting.
My relationship with Doctor Zhivago is that it's fundamental to my understanding of human dignity and human frailty. It is also a very nice love story.
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ladycatashtrophe · 3 months
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It is very inch resting being an English Writing student with 3 different disorders that all have obsession/compulsion/impulsivity as symptoms because do I ~like~ Hawthorne or Emerson? No. Am I, perhaps, wasting my time in a library that closes too damn early researching transcendentalism and romanticism and how they lead to a whirlpool that contains gothic literature, surrealism, and sentimentalism because these crotchety old men were out of their gourds but sometimes right? Yes. Yes I am.
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metamatar · 10 months
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[...] I do not know of any fictional narrative in Urdu, in roughly the last two hundred years, which is of any significance and any length (I am making an exception for a few short stories here) in which the issue of colonialism or the difficulty of a civilizational encounter between the English and the Indian has the same primacy as, for example, in Forster’s A Passage to India or Paul Scott’s The Raj Quartet. The typical Urdu writer has had a peculiar vision, in which he or she has never been able to construct fixed boundaries between the criminalities of the colonialist and the brutalities of all those indigenous people who have had power in our own society. We have had our own hysterias here and there – far too many, in fact – but there has never been a sustained, powerful myth of a primal innocence, when it comes to the colonial encounter. The ‘nation’ indeed became the primary ideological problematic in Urdu literature only at the moment of Independence, for our Independence too was peculiar: it came together with the Partition of our country, the biggest and possibly the most miserable migration in human history, the worst bloodbath in the memory of the subcontinent: the gigantic fratricide conducted by Hindu, Muslim and Sikh communalists. Our ‘nationalism’ at this juncture was a nationalism of mourning, a form of valediction, for what we witnessed was not just the British policy of divide and rule, which surely was there, but our own willingness to break up our civilizational unity, to kill our neighbours, to forgo that civic ethos, that moral bond with each other, without which human community is impossible. A critique of others (anti-colonial nationalism) receded even further into the background, entirely overtaken now by an even harsher critique of ourselves. The major fictions of the 1950s and 1960s–the shorter fictions of Manto, Bedi, Intezar Hussein; the novels of Qurrat ul Ain, Khadija Mastoor, Abdullah Hussein – came out of that refusal to forgive what we ourselves had done and were still doing, in one way or another, to our own polity. No quarter was given to the colonialist; but there was none for ourselves either. One could speak, in a general sort of way, of ‘the nation’ in this context, but not of ‘nationalism’.
Aijaz Ahmed, In Theory: Nations, Classes and Literatures. Emphasis mine
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saranilssonbooks · 22 days
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When you literally love something to bits. Holy sh*t if this copy can't take a beating though. Well invested $4.99.
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rosepompadour · 2 years
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She painted little hearts on everything. She had no other logo.
Ted Hughes on Sylvia Plath, Birthday Letters
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flowersforfrancis · 11 months
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Francis Abernathy’s Relative was on the Titanic.
I know Jack, and Rose, and their whole story were nonexistent.
But The Titanic is my comfort film and The Secret History is my comfort book. And I don’t really know what I’m trying to say; it just makes me smile.
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sulasnsleep · 9 months
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“Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone. Sad too. Touch, touch me.”
— James Joyce, Ulysses
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I want to fall in love again;
I wish to fall in love with life again, the little things, the childish things. No longer does the moon entice me, nor do the purrs of my cat enlighten me. The sun's morning rays are just unable to brighten my days anymore.
I've never felt more emptier in all of my life than how I feel these days. Almost like a vessel left to rot away as a forlorn being; unloved and incapable of loving.
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prosedumonde · 1 year
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Je n’ai aucun désir d’être remarqué, et j’ai toutes les raisons du monde d’espérer ne jamais l’être.
Jane Austen, Raison et sentiments
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