"I Like To See Flowers Growing, But When They Are Gathered, They Cease To Please. I Look On Them As Things

Fantaghirò (Lamberto Bava, 1991)

“How often, while women and girls sit warm at snug firesides, their hearts and imaginations are doomed to divorce from the comfort surrounding their persons, forced out by night to wander through dark ways, to dare stress of weather, to contend with the snow-blast, to wait at lonely gates and stiles in wildest storms, watching and listening to see and hear the father, the son, the husband coming home.”

– Vilette, Charlotte Brontë

"Prejudices, it is well known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened or fertilised by education: they grow there, firm as weeds among stones." - Charlotte Bronte Jane Eyre (Chapter XXIX; paragraph 15)

That Hamlet post reminds me, people blame Romeo and Juliet for "getting everyone killed", but the text itself very specifically blames the lords Capulet and Montague. If you want to get to the nitty gritty:

Mercutio got himself killed. Romeo was very specifically trying to not have a swordfight, and Mercutio decided to start one because he thought Romeo was being a pussy. Tybalt actually killed him, but if you're talking about who "got him killed," that was Mercutio fucking around and finding out.

Romeo killed Tybalt. This is the one death that I think you can reasonably lay at Romeo's feet. If he had run off with Benvolio and got the Prince's men, Tybalt would have been arrested. That said, if my best friend (no matter how stupid) was killed right in front of me and the killer told me that friend sucked and so did I, I cannot guarantee I would do differently.

Lady Capulet said she hired people to kill Romeo. He beat them to the punch on that, but I think it should be pointed out.

Romeo killed Paris in self-defense. There's a lot of different ways you can play this, and Paris did think he'd broken in to vandalize the tomb of his girlfriend, but once again Romeo specifically begged someone not to fight him and that wasn't enough.

Romeo killed himself because he thought Juliet was dead. Friar Lawrence had a stupid idea and Juliet followed through on it because her father was going to force her into bigamy (and arguably marital rape), so if anyone "got" this to happen it was Lord Capulet.

Juliet killed herself because her husband was dead, her cousin was dead, her parents had turned on her, the woman who she thought of as a second mother abandoned her, and she was in a room with one guy stabbed and another guy poisoned right as the law was about to break in. Once again, I don't know what I'd do in her situation.

My Shakespeare professor said that Romeo and Juliet is the only Shakespeare tragedy not caused because of anyone being evil- Lord Capulet and Tybalt (and Mercutio) are dicks, but they're not Iago or Richard III. None of them wanted the play to end in a pile of bodies. You can't even point to one specific act and say 'that was the specific action that caused all of this.' It's a surprisingly modern (as opposed to mythic) play in that regard.

why are dudes in fanfic always getting hit with freight train orgasms. why not an orient express orgasm, classy and romantic. where are the shinkansen train orgasms? his orgasm hit him like the TGV atlantique breaking the passenger rail speed record. like the shanghai maglev, his orgasm was a feat of engineering but something of a commercial disappointment.

I think the real appeal of Mr Darcy isn't that he's handsome, rich and has the whole "redeemable jerk" vibe to him.

I think the real appeal is that he sees the worst in Lizzy and still loves her. He thinks so little of her, feels genuine contempt and still comes out the other side wanting to be with her. It doesn't matter that what he perceives as "flaws" is basically classist bullshit, just the fact that he sees flaws in her and still wants her is enough.

Personally, I won't believe anyone who tells me I'm perfect. I know I'm not and even if I believe they think that of me, I will spend my time dreading the time they figure out the truth and possibly reject me.

But what if someone showed up and already thought ill of me? Even better, someone who believes about me the worst of the things I believe about myself? Someone who thinks I'm lazy and awkward and I talk too much and I spend too much money and I eat more than I should and I can't properly take care of myself? And what if that person also loved me and chose to be with me, because I am so kind, honest, intelligent, funny and artistic that they figure I'm worth their love?

THAT is where the appeal lies. And this aspect of it is perfectly encapsulated in that line from Pride & Prejudice's quasi-adaptation, Bridget Jones's Diary:

so, it's not that we like ill-mannered jerks. We just like the idea that someone would go to such lengths and overcome their own selves to date trashcans like us. What a compliment.

Walking My Penguin

i am walking my penguin walking my penguin for a few furlongs walking my penguin no madam that is not a euphemism not a euphemism for anything anything at all.. my penguin requires a little decent gentle exercise so taking my penguin for walkies is great and he is unable to lift weights you ask why well because my particular penguin has flippers you try lifting dumbbells with flippers not recommended.. besides that and perhaps because he has put on a little weight his portly gait means his back is bent out of shape somewhere down there his vintage blubber is stoically marinating.. when i walk my penguin in the cold winter weather he dons woolly neon booties with sucker-soled grips so he does not fall over onto the unforgiving icy concrete penguins feet are so unsuited to negotiate human concrete.. and please do not get me started on why pavements do not have under-heated penguin air-bags so where does all our council tax go terrible i know i know.. i am walking my penguin no madam that is not a euphemism not a euphemism for anything you have asked me that once already that makes no sense at all.. and he never lashes on the lamp posts of dogs he is exceedingly well-mannered he stays in his lane and when he takes a shine to a neighbour he drops an egg in their garden for them alpha-bloke penguins have an extraordinary skill set penguin misandrists really need to visit their shrink-vet.. no offence meant madam i am simply walking my penguin only for a few furlongs after all do you not also walk yours yes i should hope so.. and madam i hope you know you should never let your penguin out on its own common sense is not so common now gangster pedigree penguin-nappers are everywhere they even write stupid songs glorifying it all conceptual double-albums about penguins finding themselves are a rare and treasured find the swirly album art work is always immersive and sublime.. yes i know and alas it is not like the days of yore when you could let your penguin out to relax in a deckchair on strawberryfied-krill summer days in the secure knowledge your penguin would always always remain in completely rude health and super-safe apart from when your penguin suffers the irritating seasonal malady of mildly fatal heatstroke..

Source: Walking My Penguin

Her father says her name harsh and angry and firm, divided into four syllables, O. PHE. LI. A, never shouting, and that is somehow worse. 

Her brother says her name quick, like it’s a slur, o phe lia, the syllables blending and blurring together, like he cannot wait to stop. 

The boy who once defined her whole world told her that Ophelia sounds like Ō filia, which means Oh, Daughter in Latin. 

Latin is a dead language, and she is no one’s daughter, now.

Okay, whoever wrote this, I wish I wrote it. Bravo, my friend <3

In 1847 the stereotypes for male and female writers were very rigid. Critics expected from a male writer strength, passion, and intellect, and from a woman writer they expected tact, refinement, and piety. They depended on these stereotypes so much, in fact, that they really didn't know how to proceed, what to say, or what to look for in a book if they were unsure of the author's sex.

So Jane Eyre created a tremendous sensation, and it was a problem for the Brontës. The name Currer Bell could be that of either a man or a woman and the narrator of Jane Eyre is Jane herself. The book is told as an autobiography. These things suggested that the author might have been a woman. On the other hand, the novel was considered to be excellent, strong, intelligent and, most of all, passionate. And therefore, the critics reasoned, it could not be written by a woman, and if it turned out that it was written by a woman, she had to be unnatural and perverted.

The reason for this is that the Victorians believed that decent women had no sexual feelings whatsoever—that they had sexual anesthesia. Therefore, when Jane says about Rochester that his touch "made her veins run fire, and her heart beat faster than she could count its throbs," the critics assumed this was a man writing about his sexual fantasies. If a woman was the author, then presumably she was writing from her own experience, and that was disgusting. In this case we can clearly see how women were not permitted the authority of their own experience if it happened to contradict the cultural stereotype.

But even more shocking than this to the Victorians was Jane's reply to Rochester, a very famous passage in the novel. He has told her he is going to marry another woman, an heiress, but that she can stay on as a servant. Jane answers him thus:

"I tell you I must go," I retorted, roused to something like passion. "Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an automaton, a machine without feeling and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I'm soulless and heartless? You think wrong. I have as much soul as you and full as much heart. And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should've made it as hard for you to leave me as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionality, nor even of mortal flesh. It is my spirit that addresses your spirit, just as if both had passed through the grave and we stood at God's feet equal—as we are."

This splendid assertion violated not only the standards of sexual submission, which were believed to be women's duty and their punishment for Eve's crime, but it also went against standards of class submission, and obviously against religion. And this sort of rebellion was not feminine at all.

The reviews of Jane Eyre in 1847 and 1848 show how confused the critics were. Some of them said Currer Bell was a man. Some of them, including Thackeray, said a woman. One man, an American critic named Edgar Percy Whipple, said the Bells were a team, that Currer Bell was a woman who did the dainty parts of the book and brother Acton the rough parts. All kinds of circumstantial evidence were adduced to solve this problem, such as the details of housekeeping. Harriet Martineau said the book had to be the work of a woman or an upholsterer. And Lady Eastlake, who was a reviewer for one of the most prestigious journals, said it couldn't be a woman because no woman would dress her heroines in such outlandish clothes.

Eventually Charlotte Brontë revealed her identity, and then these attacks which had been general became personal. People introduced her as the author of a naughty book; they gossiped that she was Thackeray's mistress. They speculated on the causes of what they called "her alien and sour perspective on women." She felt during her entire short life that she was judged always on the basis of what was becoming in femininity and not as an artist.

-Elaine Showalter, ‘Women Writers and the Female Experience’ in Radical Feminism, Koedt et al (eds.)