tayloressque:


“I don’t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.”  ― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.

tayloressque:

“I don’t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.

(via literatureismyutopia)

I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.
written by L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables (via vse-tvoe-moe)

(Source: vintageborn, via wata-melanin)

Frankenstein, like Shelley’s Alastor, is a critique of selfish, isolated creativity… Frankenstein brings about his downfall through an act of self-aggrandising creation, which is characterized by his failure to consider the social ramifications of his actions… Frankenstein condemns much of what Byron’s Childe Harold represents: isolation, self-indulgence and an abnegation of social responsibility. It is Mary’s manifesto for the idealized community of enlightened individuals she and Shelley attempted to assemble. Her description in the elegiac Preface of the process by which Frankenstein came into being may elide some details, but it champions a method of endeavour in which ideas reach fruition through ’many a walk, many a drive, many a conversation’ – a method entirely absent from the novel itself.

Shelley played a key role in the development of Frankenstein. Together he and Mary discussed its plot, its intellectual antecedents and its emerging form… His script is interlinked with hers in the pages of the Frankenstein manuscript, transforming it into a powerful symbol of cooperative creativity.
written by Daisy Hay, from Young Romantics: The Shelleys, Byron and Other Tangled Lives (via spookyscarymulder)

(Source: miscfisc, via spookyscarymulder)

kitmillsdraws:


IT’S AUTUMN. I’m gonna put on every single drapey black item of clothing I own, gaze wistfully over some windblown cliffs*, and Lord Byron the hell out of the next few months.
*trash heaps

kitmillsdraws:

IT’S AUTUMN. I’m gonna put on every single drapey black item of clothing I own, gaze wistfully over some windblown cliffs*, and Lord Byron the hell out of the next few months.

*trash heaps

(via me-taedet-huius-vitae-ii)

bookshavepores:

John Keats’s handwritten poem “To Fanny”. The page reads:

Ah dearest love! sweet home of all my fears,
And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries
To night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears
A smiling of such delight,
As brilliant and as bright,
As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes,
Lost in soft amaze,
I gaze, I gaze!

Source / Read the full poem

(via summerlilac)

hallward:


Romantic poet comedy hour. 
Byron: Fine. Fine. Okay. Whatever. Mountains are cool / flowers are neat / glaciers are cold / your ass is sweet.

hallward:

Romantic poet comedy hour. 

Byron: Fine. Fine. Okay. Whatever. Mountains are cool / flowers are neat / glaciers are cold / your ass is sweet.

(via baronfrankenstein)

shanemaxwell:

I found this copy of Thoreau’s Walden buried in the park.  I opened it and saw these roots growing between the pages. I don’t know whether to frame it or put it back in the ground.

beatonna:

Wee Mary Wollstonecraft 

beatonna:

Wee Mary Wollstonecraft 

I was fourteen when I heard of his death. It seemed an awful calamity; I remember I rushed out of doors, sat down by myself, shouted aloud, and wrote on the sandstone: “Byron is dead!”
written by

Lord Tennyson on Byron’s death.

runecestershire: Is it bad that he reminds me quite a bit of you, here?

(via icryyoumercy)

(via me-taedet-huius-vitae-ii)