(no subject)

In that quiet unhappiness, she looked up, scorning to cry, almost, even, happy, so gentle her sorrow was, and always there, held beneath every laugh—and she laughed often, when she felt she should, and it was expected of her—and saw all the people around her talking, shouting, browsing through books and pictures and reasoning on what to splurge and where to pinch pennies, and she laid down the book that she had perused all afternoon, and nodded, smiling, at the bookseller, and took her bag and suddenly left the shop. Her friends were used to her being strange.
 

(no subject)

Fed neither by Heaven nor by Earth he was going forward, a lamp that would have blown out, were materialism true. He hadn’t a God, he hadn’t a lover—the two usual incentives to virtue. But on he struggled with his back to ease, because dignity demanded it.—E.M. Forster, Maurice.

 

It isn’t as unique as it sounds, is it? Pride demands it, the sheer bloody-minded determination to let nobody see you’re bleeding out demands it. Because, by gods, we mayn’t be anything else, but damned (already damned, religion and inclination and utter lack of regret) if I’ll be pitied.
 

the stupid, it burns!

Of course I'd find this today. This post was going to be a random and rambling discussion on The Charioteer and Maurice and how the 'ideal' lover in both rejects the idea of sex, and how odd it is to unironically call Renault comparitively explicit, but, as is, please go kill her? She thinks homosexuals didn't exist 100 years ago, *sigh*

Please? Thanks. She just ruined my entire fannishness about Alexander. My life is a lie. How will I surviiive?