I Am Not My Mother And I Am Not My Father But A Third Worse Thing

always thinking about henry kissing camilla between the eyes before his death. never tell me this man can’t be tender.

I liked the idea of living in a city — any city, especially a strange one — liked the thought of traffic and crowds, of working in a bookstore, waiting tables in a coffee shop, who knew what kind of solitary life I might slip into? Meals alone, walking the dogs in the evenings; and nobody knowing who I was.

Donna Tartt, The Secret History

nothing can ever compare to the secret history i swear

tbf to henry, if i had taken 19 classes with julian i would also have gone a little insane

Love the way Henry always mechanically goes:

Richie + Text Posts

Literally how big of an ask is it to be part of the small group of literature students with a clever name in a small college in Vermont, studying Shakespeare and Homer and Tolstoy, smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap wine straight from the bottle. Racing through the forest, hearts pounding in our chests, plaid pea coats flying out behind us as we run. Whispering love songs in French. Dancing to Bowie and Queen and the Beatles. Leaving notes stuck under dorm room doors. Stargazing and eating oranges. Living.

red lips and rosy cheeks !

made this some time ago when i have turned 17

henry winter you are so emotional. you are so much of that scared little boy who hated his father, only with skin grown thicker to bear his beatings. you are so desperate for somebody to see you as a human yet you can’t fathom the possibility so you make yourself a god.

you pretended to strip yourself of all feeling, of all guilt. you killed the one man who could make you laugh, who still saw you as a person, and it still wasn’t enough.

you could never escape being a man, being a burning, fiery ball of rage and guilt and fear. everybody looked at you as if you were a god, but if only they knew.