На самом деле я ни черта не знаю, что делать со своей жизнью

she’s whispering and warping his brain

My small analysis about The Secret History, and the way it seems to fall in the absurdism:

Through the whole book, we have these little details, characters and else that break the classic (and very structured) rules of writing. In literature, it is known that every character and every interaction is forced to have a weight on the narrative, however, in the book we find characters that are there or things that happen just because. The person following Bunny and Henry on their trip, or the character that lied about seeing something the day of Bunny's murder.

Now, this is only in the way the book is structured, however, if we look closely, we find the perfect example of why this falls in the absurdism. You see, Camus was a firm believer that things don't have to happen for a reason, that nothing matters because at the end, we all are going to die, and that it doesn't matter what we do.

Henry (and I would say Camilla and maybe even Francis) follows this idea after the bacchanal. It is the result of the bacchanal.

The murder, which is a mere concept that fall in the category of terror by humans, is an act of destruction, one of the worst transgressions (if not considered the worse one). Death is only allowed if it happens because of some sort of destiny, divinity or deity, death is a transgression for humans, the thin line. When they murdered the farmer, they crossed this line, clearly, the main strenght in this, is Henry.

When he's the main responsable of this death, he crossed the line. And then, he got away with it. So, this bringed in him the idea that, actually, nothing matters. Nothing matters because he alredy killed someone, and nothing changed. He still got up, got to study, got to live as he wants.

He described that he often felt like life was meaningless and bland, but after killing someone, he noticed that life is actually meaningless, yet, this as well means he could do whatever he wished.

That's why he could kill Bunny, that's why he decided he wanted to be closer to Camilla, play around with poisoning. Henry realized that if life was empty on its own, he could do as he pleased, because there's nothing stopping him.

I’m very sorry for this crossover but why Kunikida and Dazai look exactly like I imagined Bunny and Henry in the Rome trip

Clicked on an article from the anthropology subreddit about loneliness and was immediately blasted into oblivion by this opening paragraph

daily affirmations

i am the unkillable faggot

i can exist in grocery stores

i have the shittiest music taste in any room

i have a gun

Francis visits Henry’s grave every year. Alone.

No one else does — no one else wants to. Charles avoids the topic entirely. Camilla sends Francis clipped replies when he brings it up. Richard pretends he never gets the messages. But Francis marks the day like a liturgy. Like a holy feast. Like penance.

He books the same suite in a faceless hotel. Wears the same black coat. Packs the same silver lighter — an old one Henry once admired in passing. It’s all performative, of course. But what is Catholicism if not grief wrapped in ritual? He fasts before the visit. Doesn't drink the night before. He makes the trip feel like confession.

The grave is unmarked, just a patch of earth in a neglected corner of a rural cemetery, the kind no one visits on purpose. Francis had to dig to find out where Henry was buried. Had to call someone’s widow and lie. But now he knows, and he treats it like a secret shrine.

He kneels every year. Gets the dirt on his trousers, on his coat, lets the damp seep into his bones because suffering feels closer to prayer when it’s physical. And he talks.

Not to Henry. Not really. To God. To himself. To something between the two.

"You ruined everything, you know," he says once. "And so did I."

He breaks off. Lights a cigarette. Doesn’t smoke it. Leaves it burning at the grave like incense. The first year he did this, he left a bottle of scotch. Last year, he left a page torn out of a Latin prayer book. This year, he doesn’t bring anything. He just sits.

And he waits. For something. A sign. An answer. Forgiveness.

But Henry is silent. Always was. Even now, dead and buried, he’s still the one with the upper hand.

And Francis — Francis goes back to the hotel, vomits in the sink, lights another cigarette with shaking hands. He doesn’t cry. Not anymore. It’s been years. But his hands won’t stop trembling.

That night, he goes to mass. Sits in the very back. Doesn't take communion.

He knows better.

Ебаный трамп почему никто не заткнул ему варежку сколько можно какие минералы блять

am I reincarnation of Simone de Beauvoir or why do I feel every single line from the inseparables

My shelf 🖤🖤🖤