“In Films, We Are Voyeurs, But In Novels, We Have The Experience Of Being Someone Else: Knowing Another

when whitman said “i contradict myself. i am large… i contain multitudes” and wilde said “what are you? to define is to limit” and sumney said “i insist upon my right to be multiple”

“Why are some people drawn to minimalist architecture and others to Baroque? Why are some people excited by bare concrete walls and others by William Morris’s floral patterns? Our tastes will depend on what spectrum of our emotional make-up lies in shadow and is hence in need of stimulation and emphasis. Every work of art is imbued with a particular psychological and moral atmosphere: a painting may be either serene or restless, bourgeois or aristocratic, and our preferences for one kind over another reflect our varied psychological gaps. We hunger for artworks that will compensate for our inner fragilities and help return us to a viable mean. We call a work ‘beautiful’ when it supplies the virtues we are missing, and we dismiss as ‘ugly’ one that forces on us moods or motifs that we feel either threatened or already overwhelmed by. Art holds out the promise of inner wholeness.”

— Alain de Botton & John Armstong, Art as Therapy

The sheer beauty of being truly invested in a book is what I live for. Your eyes fervishly scan the words desperate to know what happens next. You feel the characters and it’s like they’re an extension of you. Every word, every letter is deeply ingrained as it becomes a part of you

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie | We Should All Be Feminists | 2014

living the dark academia life

messy handwriting and even messier notebooks, doodles of skulls with sunflowers dangling from their eyes

burning the corners of pages, an older look given to them, the smell of ancient given to your room

wearing the cheapest, largest brown sweaters and the most comfortable, softest cream skirts

classical music softly bouncing on each one of the walls in your room, a list of your favorite composers pinned to your wall

a black ring on your finger, your hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea

your eyes closing softly from spending too much time reading, a candle to keep you company

the wet tip of your finger, the turning of yet another page

soft brown on your eyelids, gloss on your lips

long studying session in the library, you’re curled up on your chair, seven academic books are sitting next to your side, three articles are waiting to be read

stains around the edges of your nails, your skin painted with ink

a book in your bag, a pen used as a bookmark to annotate everything that makes your hands shake

a leather belt around your waist, your old grandpa’s sweatshirt tucked in has not gone to waste

standing right in the centre of a museum, sketching the outline of a sculture, scribbling down everything there is to know about a painting – in this, your hands are still stained

letting the rain softly caress your hair, carrying an umbrella to match your velvet trousers

a smile on your face when writing an essay, a yawn from your mouth when you finally go to sleep – after your eyelids are closed, psychedelic, dark and soft dreams are reaching your mind

I await a darling with the most literate of tongues and the most revolutionary of minds who whispers Shakespeare sonnets onto my lips at moonrise and enriches, enlightens me with art and poetry and language that will leave me gasping for air.

bridge of sighs, cambridge | ig: studyplants

types of dark academics

the romantic: is in love with either someone from the French Revolution or with a fictional character; thought Hamlet was boring until Ophelia came in; would die for each and every single of the Dead Poets Society guys (except Cameron); reads sonnets at night and tries to memorize them for future conversations; Brontë; hates coffee, drinks at least three cups of cheap earl grey everyday; writes but you’ll never read it; allergic to Instagram poetry.

the scholar: is fluent in either Greek, Latin or French, probably downloaded duolingo for that purpose; has to drink coffee to function but never iced; gags for Lord Byron, Whitman and Shakespeare; is taking philosophy, regrets not taking literature; sucker for history; typewriters; tweed jackets; Oxford shoes; dark lipstick; everyone’s convinced they’ve murdered someone; listens to classical music exclusively.

the artist: wants to share art but always chickens out last minute; handwriting so elaborate it’s illegible; hates analyzing books but loves reading them; terrible poetry in notes app; patterned ties with every outfit; art galleries on Sundays; wants to live inside The Secret History and If We Were Villains; identifies Oscar Wilde as their father; shirts with the POOFIEST sleeves; has written a love letter at least thrice; would totally buy art pieces if they had money.

the dreamer: writes messages on their desk then exchanges messages with people who write on the same desk; words, phrases, definitions in smudged ink on hands; daydreaming while listening to piano music; has started reading 100 books in the last year, has finished 7; Romeo and Juliet is their favorite Shakespeare work; Emily Dickinson; Pride and Prejudice; dainty jewelry with sweaters and plaid skirts; beautiful notes for everything except maths.

How to Save Your Own Life, Erica Jong

You’re busy doubting yourself while so many people are intimidated by your potential