/lit/ - Literature

BOTOX

>I, for one, long to find myself trapped in a snowstorm on the moors and stumble, half-blinded, into Haworth after midnight. Called to the only house with a light still burning within, I knock on the door of the parsonage. It's the early 1840's, Anne and Charlotte are away as governesses. Emily is alone except for her father and the family's sickly servant, and the they are sound asleep, so it is she, Emily, that opens the door. With her pale, thin fingers she grasps a tarnished silver candlestick topped with a dying tallow candle. The icy wind nearly snuffs it and blows back her shawl and ringlet curls, so, without a word, she bustles me in and closes the door. The fire is dying and still more cheap candles dot the room, burning low. Before the hearth in the kitchen sits her quill her books, and few sheets of paper. The latter bear line after line of verse, written in tiny hand to conserve, and marked up carefully with corrections and additions. She endeavors to hide these, quickly, shutting them up in a cabinet before turning to ask what brought you: do you seek her father's charity? Do you bear news of her sisters?

>You tell her no, you merely seek refuge from the storm. As you answer, she thrusts a teacup into your shivering hands. The last of the tea from the pot that had sat near her writing on the table, lukewarm, fills it, and she turns her back to you, stoking the hearth, to boil water and make more. As she faces you again you perceive her tired, intense eyes. There is something fundamentally melancholy in her countenance, though she wears it well - is accustomed to it. You know that you have come into a scene that repeats itself almost every night, the young lady, unable or unwilling to sleep well, taking up her place by the fire until another day of breadmaking, ironing, sweeping and mending dawns.

>She tries to say more, but finds her self stopping short, wincing. She is terribly shy and hardly makes eye contact with you. When she at last bids you sit down, she does make small talk, but her eyes stay fixed on the fire. You must stay until morning or you are certain to freeze on the moors, and an hour passes in near total silence. At last you mention the book you saw - studiously avoiding raising the poetry - and ask her to read to you. This is not an uncommon request for the day, one of widespread illiteracy, but she is slow in answering. Finally she recovers the book from the cabinet, you see the title, but it is in a foreign language you cannot understand. "This," She nearly stammers, "Is the Sorrows of Young Werther. It is in German, I, I mean to learn German and I have some of it now. If you will permit me, I might translate it aloud for you, but I cannot give it its due, I must caution."

>You let her, of course, and she reads it well. At times, quite unaware of you, she lapses into a soliloquy about some bit of the craft of writing, something she has seen on the page, that you do not understand. You never interrupt.

>>12698768
if your doing this as an ironic nod to the groundhog day situation that you write in your post, trying to make anons feel as if certain events are repeating then you are a genius, if you're not then you're just a moronic shitposter

>>12698768
more like donna fart

Her toes jut up from her foot like joyful petals, neither long nor stubby they remind one of a string of bells tuned to ring together. Her arches are so curvy they actually make you sad because so many otherwise beautiful women are gifted and already so rare but yet they lack Donna Tartt's serpentine underpinnings. The undulations that wiggle and twist Donna's hypnotic peds appear perfectly musical, like one expects a high note piano key to accompany every twitch and flex of each of Donna Tartt's piggies, from her sumptuous big metatarsal that goes to the market to even her toe that seeks no roast beef. Should I ever be given a say in such things I'd heartily and without hesitation pledge my entire afterlife's eternity to a synesthestic immersion within Donna Tartt's magnificent tootsies. I neednt ever clog the reincarnative machinery so long as my abiding perennial soul can be housed so in Ms. Tartt's soles, to feel every tread of her trek, her dampness, her dankess, even embarrassing lapses in hygiene, I'd be privy to them all, letting her fumes fill me until within my senses we're drenched in her rank beauty.

>>12699111
I am a genius, thank you. I am just in love with Donna because we both speak like inbred hicks. Her fame offers me hope, and her loveliness offers me erections and daydreams.

thanks again for reading.

>>12698768
Donna Tartt is the alpha and omega of /lit/
Gashlycrumb Tinies

>>12698817
no u

>>12699165
u t-too