corvusregina

"i find the way that the language of ‘wokeness’ (a word bastardized by white tongues who colonized it and made it filthy, who removed it from its home and context) has been weaponized to hide or perpetuate conservative values beyond sickening. words used to mean things. the unread are throwing around accusations of being out of touch for expecting basic cultural literacy like rice at a wedding, not aware that they are revealing their own views on class- on who they believe the arts are for." - ayan artan, in defence of pretension

the other day i was thinking about what really connects declan & jordan from the dreamer trilogy and i think one really important characteristic that they share is that they've both had to sacrifice their own autonomy for the people they care about. declan pretends to be boring white man #314 for the sake of ronan and matthew's safety, whereas jordan has spent her life in hennessy's shadow as a mere copy. and maggie stiefvater threads them together by this so that they sort of find solace with one another.

About noon, an arrow entered Joan’s body, just above her left breast, at exactly the place she had prophesied to her confessor on her way from Chinon to Orléans. She fell back, in shock and in great pain. She wept, despite her foreknowledge of the nature of her wound. It is was though she were surprised, not that she had been struck by an arrow, but that it would hurt.

When her pale body had decayed in the water It happened (very slowly) that God gradually forgot her, First her face, then her hands and right in the end, her hair. Then she became carrion in rivers with much carrion.

I should tell you about my first love who found a trapdoor under my left breast nine years ago, fell in and hasn’t been seen since. Every now and then I feel something crawling up my thigh. He should make himself known, I’d probably let him out. I hope he hasn’t bumped in to the others, the missing boys from small towns, with pleasant mothers, who did bad things and got lost in the maze of my hair. I treat them well enough, a slice of bread, if they’re lucky a piece of fruit. Except for Johnny with the blue eyes, who picked my locks and crawled in. Silly boy, chained to the basement of my fears, I play music to drown him out.

Is that life after death — mind living on paper and flesh living in offspring?

someone mentions padmé amidala:

ronan in the raven boys: i'm always straight

Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self — like a disease of the blood, dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion.

Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women, kitchen of love, bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy. Sometimes, the men, they come with keys, and sometimes the men, they come with hammers.

You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting “Vanity,” thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for your own pleasure.