Elena N > Recent Status Updates

Nature intended in her design a hearty life of toil, open fires and plump old age attended by a brood of sun-touched brats. That she chose instead to be a singer and more latterly a nun is evidence of a certain submerged cussedness, or possibly a consequence of the strange upheavals of the twentieth century, which made rural motherhood look, at least for a while, like an admission of defeat.

She has to admit privately that she may be mad. Although if so, it is a merciless, clear-sighted sort of madness and not at all what a lady might hope for. She has not lost her marbles or popped her garters, or any of the cosier sorts of madness she has observed in her contemporaries. She has, if anything, gone postal.

Edie Banister, ninety years of age and a stalwart of the established order, has pushed the button on the revolution. She sighs again. It’s so odd to be a supervillain, and at her age, too.

Nature intended in her design a hearty life of toil, open fires and plump old age attended by a brood of sun-touched brats. That she chose instead to be a singer and more latterly a nun is evidence of a certain submerged cussedness, or possibly a consequence of the strange upheavals of the twentieth century, which made rural motherhood look, at least for a while, like an admission of defeat.

‘So, we were all witnesses to a murder,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Which, needless to say, is wonderful.’
‘Tragic too, in its way, if we wanted to be traditional about our emotions,’ adds Ibrahim.

‘So who killed Tony Curran, and how do we catch him?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Or catch “him or her”, I know I should say, but it’s probably “him”. What kind of woman would bludgeon someone? A Russian woman, but that’s about it.’

а эта форма в свою очередь оказала влияние на содержание»

чем открытое недомогание. Следовательно подсушенный нами внутренний шепот [невинного] звучит громче чем возмущенный крик всех моральных судей в мире. Содержание романа обусловила определенную форму,

Картина жестокости и несправедливости окружающих всплывает как бы сама собой: казалось бы самым беспристрастным способом все это зло выставляется на всеобщее суд. Такое косвенное изобличение намного эффектнее,

We’re just little ants, convinced of our own importance, of being the hero of the story. None of it makes any sense unless we meet one another and share.

What remains of our lives? I imagine it’s all the little things that decorate bookshelves; the little treasures that prevent you from grabbing a book on the first try.

❤️❤️❤️

the unfolding of the unforeseen was everything. Turned wrong way round, the relentless unforeseen was what we schoolchildren studied as "History," harmless history, where everything unexpected in its own time is chronicled on the page as inevitable. The terror of the unforeseen is what the science of history hides, turning a disaster into an epic

As my friend Julian puts it, only half winkingly: “God blessed me by making me transsexual for the same reason God made wheat but not bread and fruit but not wine, so that humanity might share in the act of creation.”

What if I’m too old for sex, I’m almost F O R T Y.
Are there even ages you can turn after forty? or do you just turn into a tree
oh my God, my body is like autumn,
where all the leaves are falling off the trees
only what’s falling off me is hotness

I have only ever admitted what I hunger for under duress, when all of my other options have been exhausted and my escape routes cut off, and even then seek to downplay the nature of it in advance, the better to ward off disappointment

Other people occasionally liked my body (plenty objected to it, but again this seemed like proof for, rather than against, my womanhood), I liked it when others were pleased; to me this was the same as liking the thing itself