/lit/ - Literature

Dear /lit/,

Me and my friend stumbled into an estimulating exercise, which consists in the description of these old animated movies, which are chock-ful of pathos and piety. This one is a rendering of Anastasia (with slight modification's, this is not an army drill, naturally), and I'll try finding my friend's own view, which is much better than mine.

If anyone wanna try it as well, it could be fun.


"She found herself in an enormous dark pavillion, the faint moonlight barely sketching the colourful specters of knights, saints and dames which remained frozen by the thick, stained glass windows in a series of exciting adventures. Her eyes took a while to get used to that ancient darkness, the stark nakedeness of a marble floor, swept with dust and the memory of glittering balls. She walked down the ample stairway from the right, carefully stopping before a delicately blurred tonsured monk, hands upraised in an endless prayer, and sat on the last cold step. The shimmering shadow of the saint undulated beneath her icy feet, like a lake of silk, and after his image came a dozen square pools of chilvalrous quests. Her heart thumped as loud and bright as a flower, and the ceilings seemed webbed by an imaginary, distant past, which somehow was trying to reach her, to speak the unutterable by way of an out-of-date, aristocratic silence. She raised her head, dizzy with remembrance, and as if a tectonic plate had, microscopically, disloged itself by the Lord’s capricious quill, she started to sing, and wail, and spin her raggedy rags around like a whirling dervish. Her voice echoed from the walls and the field of marble around her appeared to be shaken off, as if by a magic broom, out of it’s somber slumber. The air regained it’s former warmth, her olivacious eyes widened and she smiled as a crowd of dashing looking silhouettes descendend from the window-tops. They slowly sailed down, in pairs, dressed up in an illusive combination of iridiscent lights and glamour. The song’s conjuring power had revived the souls of the dead. The happy romance of bygone days was waltzing before her, while she gasped at the occasional recognition. What a heart-wrenching pull she must have felt when, between a swiss moustache and a golden pincenez, she sighted the valiant figure of Vrosmky, tighly cluthing Anna’s hand, as they flew across the ballroom without a care in their eternal minds."