Never old…

D’estate, quasi sempre, riprendo in mano i miei libri…si sá che vivo solo di notte con ‘sti caldi…

Ed ogni volta che inizio mi cade l’occhio sui miei andrinople.
Tento di resistere, inutile davvero.
Finisco che li apro al solito modo.
Mi perdo.

È qualcosa di più che un’infatuazione per caratteri d’inchiostro e carta rilegata.
È un mondo che conosco a memoria, capace di risucchiarmi negli anni fra il 1880 ed il 1920 in una comunione di sensi e spiriti insieme alla prima persona della Imperatrice.

Quella bilogia rimane una delle mie letture più belle e private.
Un pilastro dal quale ho attinto anch’io inverosimilmente con Steps anche se non sembrerebbe…

Volete la mia Bibbia? Leggetevi Hannàh ed Imperatrice.

Annunci

I’m LOVING this fic and I’m not even halfway…
Ohhhh the slow burn, the narrative, the intelligence!
It’s very refreshing to read something not truly affected by fangirls behaviour and ridiculous conceptions of a Darcyesque or ooc Snape.
The fic in question is obviously in English and primarily an HG/SS with a secondary developing HP/DM

It’s called The problem of  purity.
It’s written from Phoenix.Writing.
You can find it on ff.net here.

Do be warned this story is 63 chapters long and 638k+ in lenght but is complete…Off to reading again I am…
Even when I really really need to get the hang of at least half of Freud material for next week…sigh😅

Where and when

There are shorter days…

Pears and California, ice-cold tea and lemon flavoured pastries.

Afternoons quietly passing watching the hula girl swaying her hips on the windshield.

Curves and highs and lows, speeding up getting there.

Summer’s going to be gone soon and we’re still on the road joking about being young and drinking margaritas while playing domino.

Watching the city teens getting past drunk on their nights out from behind the peach flavored vodka bottle.

Stealing a few swigs of your dad whiskey stash with low curses and burnin tongues and cigarette butts filling the car ashtray.

Colourful fairy lights on the porch and candles in the jars burning low.

Summer will be gone too soon at this rate.

Give me the theory and I shall spin our story while the dragonflies play into the darkness and the bonfire dies into tomorrow.

2200

I used to be a strange child.

In the summers I looked at the landscape under the scorching sun from the shadows.

In winter I read endless books about beautiful days, my feet tucked between the bed and the heater to stave off the cold. Often I was bored to tears by the longest talks between brothers and sisters on Sundays.

Spring was just a glimmer of dry cerulean sky.

Autumn was the time of the year I never step foot out due to the rain so I read, there was little else to be done.

Always secluded in a big quadrilater of green grass, closed by tall walls and a heavy iron gate. I rarely played with someone ‘cause they were no other children my age and I was forbidden to go out.

I read several hours a day, and I dreamed vivid dreams.

I never felt alone in my world.

I actually started to see other children only at five years old and my seclusion showed: I was not capable of instaurate friendships, I did not understand a inch of what the other children thought (and I came to the conclusion pretty soon that children my age did not think at all)

I was an introvert to the highest degree.

So I became an extrovert to not feel different and that’s what caused the “Tendencies to be a leader” note of the teachers in first grade. The leader was not me, but I could act pretty well the role for five hours a day.

Still I never really connected with people my age, it was a rarity to invite someone home or go play with other children.

Sometimes when someone came to my house to play I had to put a straight face and play with them but after a while I just stopped to be responsive and dismissed them to their own world, bored to death.

This cycle never really stopped I just ceased the extrovert persona at twelve when I understood there was no point in stressing.

I was different, end of story.

I loathe to have friendships now. They never did me any good or be useful in any way.

The only real delight to me is putting my thoughts on paper with the clarity of silence.

A pleasure greater than this I honestly still don’t know.

2165

Oh please! Still pursuing the dusty tomes? With tea?! What the hell are you a nun?

Yes, I am.

At least  I can read – you know – pages to devour, best to know what I like rather than vegetate.

And now do me a favour: remove yourself from my little temple of peace.

Thank. You. Very. Much.

Come uccidere il momento perfetto…

Dopo una lunga giornata c’é solo più una cosa che riesce a farmi drizzare le antenne.
La tazza di tè serale.
Fumante come l’incensiere da messa.
Sarà che sto invecchiando e che vedo triplo verso le dieci sera quando iniziano le mie ore notturne d’aria e scrivo (od almeno ci provo!).
Sarà quest’estate che estate non è (e che sto godendo come solo una persona dalla pelle bianca e debole alle vampate di caldo può godersi).
Sarà il fatto che davvero, non mi sono mai vergognata tanto della nostra figura di c***a nei mondiali.
Che ieri per la prima volta dopo quasi due anni ho ricominciato timidamente ad ascoltare i NW e ci ho ritrovato ‘l’emozione‘.
No, non tornerò di certo a riempire pagine e pagine su Tuomas&company ma quelle passeggiate malinconiche in mezzo ai castagni sì.
Non sono mai veramente smesse, come le letture della mezzanotte (in questo caso Laclos) e gli occhi all’insù verso i baldacchini di foglie e le stelle.
Sarà che ho salvato tutte le rose della mia vecchia nonnina e stanno fiorendo assieme alle ortensie come mai le ho viste negli ultimi dieci anni.
Sarà che essere soli non significa non avere niente da perdere.
La compagnia non serve a niente, se non a perdere tempo ed uccidere quelle frasi che hai sulla punta della lingua nel momento perfetto.
Non adoro la gente, preferisco molto di più la tazza, il libro, la penna e la carta ed i boschi dove a parlare c’è solo il vento fra le foglie e non si offende se non gli presti caso.

Quote of the day

Is it better to out-monster the monster
                           or to be quietly devoured?

– F. Nietzsche

The Bird of Hermes is my name, eating my wings to make me tame.
I’m Hermes, I’ve become tamed by devouring my own wings.

But is not always better just to disappear behind written word forgetting your losses?
Sometimes they just return to you as treasures of a life lived.

THIS!

“Think of a book special to you, and how much bleaker and poorer your life would
be if that one writer had not existed—if that one writer had not, a hundred
times or a thousand, made the choice to write.

You’re going to be that one writer, one day, for somebody you may never meet. Nobody can write that book
you’re going to write—that book that will light up and change up a life—but
you.”

– @sarahreesbrennan, on ignoring the doubters.
(via lettersandlight)

There is such truth in these words I bow to to you.
So many books have made me what I am today (both the fiction writer and the reader) that I can wholly understand.
And every new story or book I feast my eyes on is a discovery and a change in itself.
When you love something you keep it near your heart; be it a novel, a piece of music, a painting, a picture.
And then you create, because you’re inspired by others’ works, the magic returns and you give your best.

This is the place of mind when I finally feel to be in the right place in time.