Sweet princess, if through this wicked witch’s trick, a spindle should your finger prick… a ray of hope there still may be in this, the gift I give to thee. Not in death, but just in sleep, the fateful prophecy you’ll keep. And from this slumber you shall wake, when true love’s kiss, the spell shall break.
It doesn’t matter how terrifying or monstrous or deadly you make your eldritch monster, there’s gonna be a person who hauls themselves out of the sewers to tell you that they will personally fuck it.
This post has so many notes and it’s mostly people calling out their friends for being sewer-dwelling awful cryptid fuckers and I love it. Expose them.
“The older I get, the more I feel that all great books are written from a position of urgency and, unlike Sontag, I believe they must have emotional power. Emotional flatness does not endure because, however much we may admire a book’s textual gymnastics or sagacity in the moment, it is affect that consolidates memory and keeps a novel alive inside us. It does not follow from this, however, that such an emotional response requires “well-rounded” psychological characters, or that literary somersaults or high jinx are forbidden, nor does it mean that great prose fiction has a single emotional register. The force of irony should not be underestimated. Think of Greek tragedy. Think of Don Quixote. Humor may partake of distance, but the belly laugh is memorable. […] Human beings like to feel their art. Feeling is the source of all primal meanings and colors all experience.”
— Siri Hustvedt, “Sontag on Smut: Fifty Years Later” in A Woman Looking at Men Looking at Women: Essays on Art, Sex, and the Mind (via atreides)
kototyph 