A dandy of the highest order, she only wrote on purple stationary and surrounded herself at all times with such extravagant flowers that she nearly went bankrupt.

Victorian Hot Messes: The Torture Porn of Ouida

I have seen my future. And it is beautiful.

(via whiskeyinyrshoes)

OK, can I just tell you a tiny story. They tell us Victorianists that you have to teach undergrads only the canon, that nobody will be willing to sign up for a Victorian lit class that doesn’t do Dickens et al, that students will just skip over the one book on your syllabus that isn’t ~famous. They tell us there’s nothing you can do about it so ~join us~ and we sort of usually do.

But my adviser put Ouida on the syllabus and there are—and we are talking about a book with three chapters devoted to how pretty this dude’s horse is and like twice that about which curtains make him look sexy when he’s in his bedroom—and the students toooootally dug it. Do you want to know why? Yeah, this novel also has cross-dressing African-French girl who actually wins a battle and carries a cutlas around. And the main dude? He’s definitely the pretty one. Everybody agrees.

I’m just saying: it’s always worthwhile to assign Ouida in your classes.

(via ifeelbetterer)

(via ifeelbetterer)

dressthesavage:

looking up Catullus’ nasty poems about Julius Caesar

and i find a wiki article about his poems arranged by ‘theme’

image

….it’s not quite what i expected?? 

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i’m pissing myself here, his poems are just too real 

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CATULLUS, THE POET WE CAN ALL RELATE TO 

Oh my god, this guy is amazing.

(via ifeelbetterer)

Thom Gunn (1929-2004)

normalheart-history:

Thom Gunn was an openly gay poet in San Francisco. Although he never contracted HIV, he wrote the most famous volume of poetry about living through the epidemic. The title poem, “The Man With Night Sweats,” is even quoted in Emily Nussbaum’s review of the HBO version of The Normal Heart in The New Yorker. It’s short enough to reprint here in full.

The Man With Night Sweats

I wake up cold, I who
Prospered through dreams of heat 
Wake to their residue, 
Sweat, and a clinging sheet. 

My flesh was its own shield: 
Where it was gashed, it healed.

I grew as I explored 
The body I could trust 
Even while I adored
The risk that made robust,

A world of wonders in
Each challenge to the skin.

I cannot but be sorry
The given shield was cracked,
My mind reduced to hurry, 
My flesh reduced and wrecked.

I have to change the bed, 
But catch myself instead

Stopped upright where I am 
Hugging my body to me 
As if to shield it from 
The pains that will go through me,

As if hands were enough 
To hold an avalanche off. 

I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while we eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages.