Barrister Babu CC #18 - Page 75

Give me the old-school love. Write me letters. Leave me random notes. Kiss my hands. Slow dance with me. Write a poem. Lie down with me on the grass. Read to me. *day dreaming*

Originally posted by: briti_asfiya

You know what my perfect gift would be? It would be an annotated copy of your favourite book. I don’t just mean a couple of tabs, I mean annotated. I mean highlighted to the ends of the earth, pages black with scribbled annotations, entire pages underlined and captioned ‘THIS’. I want to see tear stains on the pages, corners bent from when you threw it across the room, spine broken because you were too absorbed in the story to care. I want paragraphs of you yelling at characters, I want your witty remarks and sarcastic comments, I want your little doodles in the margins. because then you’re not just giving me a book. you’re giving me a little piece of yourself, and I think that’s the best gift you could ever give me.

The way you want something differnt and write it on the book

The way you highlight that one scene and use a smiley to show your liking for it..the way its written its all so precious

I agree it can be one of the best gifts because its one of the warmest thoughts to share those diary like entries with the one you are close to

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

​The Song of Wandering Aengus; William Butler Yeats.

You all ran away as soon as I started spamming. 😔

Originally posted by: Alexia_Wilson

Those little scribblings and paper folding shows the deep emotional attachment with the book

The way you want something differnt and write it on the book

The way you highlight that one scene and use a smiley to show your liking for it..the way its written its all so precious

I agree it can be one of the best gifts because its one of the warmest thoughts to share those diary like entries with the one you are close to

Exactly, it is a piece of your soul, yourself and you're giving that to me. You're giving me a part of you because you know that I will cherish it.

If anyone asks where I am, tell them I ran away with Ms. Dickinson please & thank you. 😆

Some Underrated ‘The Secret History’ quotes:

“On leaving home I was able to fabricate a new and far more satisfying history.”

“I felt my existence was tainted, in some subtle but essential way.”

“I don’t think I can explain the despair my surroundings inspired in me.”

“The great romantics are often failed classicists.”

“But isn’t it always pain that often makes us most aware of self?”

“All she lacks is a mother’s firm hand, but still, for my money, she’s what you call a bramble rose.”

“It’s beautiful here, but the morning light can make the most vulgar things tolerable.”

“And always, always that same toast. Live forever.”

“She was a living reverie for me: the mere sight of her sparked an almost infinite range of fantasy, from Greek to Gothic, from vulgar to divine.”

“My life, which before had been only solitary and miserable. Became unbearable.”

“Time is something which defies spring and winter, birth and decay, the good and the bad, and absolutely indestructible. Duality ceases to exist; “

“We’d all been really, truly out of our minds. And it may be a superhuman effort to loose oneself so completely, but that’s nothing compared to the effort of getting oneself back again.”

“She was still a girl, a slight lovely girl who ate chocolates, a girl who’s hair smelt like hyacinth and who’s scarves fluttered jauntily in the breeze.”

“We’d done our errands, not to mention an awful lot of cocaine in the parking lot of Burger King.”

“I suppose it would be interesting to say that at this point I felt torn in some way, grappled with the moral implications of each courses available to me. But I don’t recall experiencing anything of a sort.”

“I buried my face in the soft, slightly acrid - smelling flesh of her neck, and rocked back and forth - babbling, mumbling, feeling myself fall down and down, into a half-forgotten life.”

Tum log toh sach mein bhag gaye. Jokes apart take care.

The urge I feel to be a librarian at a gothic style academic library walking around the creaky wood floors and climbing ladders to put away books is unexplainable. Then again I also wish to a Literature Proffesor of a famous University, like The University of Oxford or Cambridge, and also want to be the writer for the Penguin Classic. Oufff I'm crazy.

To watch the sun sink behind a flower clad hill.

To wander on in a huge forest without thought of return. To stand upon the shore and gaze after a boat that disappears behind distant islands. To contemplate the flight of wild geese seen and lost among the clouds

And, subtle shadows of bamboo on bamboo.

~Zeami Motokiyo