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luthienne
“The wounded deer dragging its fainting limbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had pierced it, and to die, was but a type of me.”

— Mary Shelley, from Frankenstein

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reblogged
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night-thief

When I reread what I've written, I feel like I'm swallowing my own vomit.

- Clarice Lispector Il Why This World: A Biography of Clarice Lispector

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degenderates

critical perspectives on Wuthering Heights

*from Wuthering Heights: A Case Study in Contemporary Criticism, ed. Linda H. Peterson. now scanned from the book for any english major, gothic lit enjoyer, post-colonial analyst, or intellectual sicko who would like to peruse!

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Love when sunburn turns to that itch impossible to satiate. Skin red as sex, scratched regardless of the pain because the pleasure outweighs it. Some strange form of self harm. Love when things are forced to physically manifest because I love feeling that it's not all in my head

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There is supposed to be a place where no one can reach you. Traditionally, the home, but now we settle for the ocean, the airplane, the summit of a mountain, the middle of a lake, the shower, the womb, the grave

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