—Queen Esther

"All I am is literature and I am not willing or able to be anything else"

—Franz Kafka

𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘋𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘺, 𝘓𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺, 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘶𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘦. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. 𝘐 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘣𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵, 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨—𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖳𝗋𝗎𝗅𝗒 𝖮𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖺

—𝖠 𝗅𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗅, 𝖩𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅.

"I love you. You may as well take my heart Catherine it's already full of you." "Please go!" "What is it? What's wrong my dear?" "You know nothing about me….you've known me only three weeks!" "Three weeks? Catherine I've known you all my life." "All your life?" "It's true, when I heard beautiful music I thought, 'she'd like that'. I looked at flowers knowing that one day I'd give them to you." "Oh stop, stop." "But for my heart there is another love that must come before you, my country."

—Masquerade,

Dangerously Yours

“She was still a girl, a slight lovely girl who lay in bed and ate chocolates, a girl whose hair smelled like hyacinth and whose white scarves fluttered jauntily in the breeze; a girl as bewitching, and clever, as any girl who ever lived.”

― Donna Tartt, The Secret History

—If you speak French, you don't know how lucky you are.

The little orphan girl represented loneliness, sadness, being invisible. Emilia sat at the window as she watched another little girl get adopted—for the fourth time this week. She always wondered if something was wrong with her. She was aware that she was a bit odd. She liked things other kids didn’t. She read books about the stars and whispered to moths at night. She remembered the sound of rain more than the voices of the people who came and went. She wasn’t the kind of child who ran up to visitors with painted smiles and perfect manners. She stayed quiet. Observing. Feeling too much and saying too little. And maybe that was the problem. She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and leaned her forehead against the window. Outside, the world kept moving. Cars passed. Clouds drifted. People chose. But never her. At least not yet.

—A lady and her quill, Life at St. Stephen's Orphanage.

Ughhh..... why are they labelling my posts as mature, my content is very harmless SFW. There are literal NSFW accounts and bots littered all over this app and nothing has been done about it

—Sound of Music (1965)