[Gertrudeís] frailty unleashes for Hamlet, and for Shakespeare, fantasies of maternal malevolence, of maternal spoiling, that are compelling exactly as they are out of proportion to the character we know, exactly as they seem therefore to reiterate infantile fears and desires rather than an adult apprehension of the mother as a separate person." - Janet Adelman, Suffocating Mothers, Fantasies of Maternal Origin in Shakespeareís Plays, Hamlet to The Tempest
"You know what makes me sick? I am sick to death of people saying that it's all the parents' fault, that it all starts...
there's no point talking to anyone because everyone's just trying to run you down they don't want to hear your opinion or engage with it they just want to hear that you disagree with them and then rip you to scraps verbally like a cage full of angry monkeys hopped up on adrenaline and pheromones waiting to impress the nearest females
Five French writers have resigned as jurors from a literary prize inspired by Marcel Proust because of rape and sexual assault claims made against its chairman, a well-known television presenter." - The Times, December 02 2021
An intellectual is someone who sits on a panel and tells you it's okay to have sex with children so long as you write lots of books that no one wants to read.
I cannot enjoy one poem by Shelley and am delighted by every line of William Barnes, but I know perfectly well that Shelley is a major poet, and Barnes a minor one.í - WH Auden, Nineteenth-Century Minor Poets
Am I a hedonist to say that pleasureís all there is, really?
To read alone is worthy of the cause. Is that a statement so profane?
I shall confess, my Lord, I just donít care, when allís been writ, who holds the gilded glove.
Iíll salt my sweet ambrosia with pulp. And you can say I lard my soul with crap.
When the famous poetess passed out in her mashed potatoes on Christmas Eve, 1978, her husband rolled his eyes and her two children carried on glumly chewing. It was a semi-regular performance, the passing out act. George wondered how he'd ended up marrying the silly bitch.
Once on a literary tour, they'd been besieged by girls who seemed to regard him with envy for having such unfettered access to their mentally unstable idol. He'd happily switch places with any of them, or the middle-aged sad-sack men who worried at her ankles at luncheons. Two years ago she'd had a brief affair...
The hotel was more populated than the proprietor, a tall and thin man, had ever seen it.
He said as much to Abigail as he led her to her room. 'The usual ghosthunters?' she asked. The proprietor paused on the landing. Beside him was a small Gothic window looking out on the forest that ran parallel to the hotel.
Opposite the hotel was a bluff that plummeted a hundred feet down to wind and seaswept rocks. 'I don't like to talk about them' he said, referring to the ghosthunters. Abigail left the matter there and followed him to her room.
She walked up to me as I collected firewood. She giggled and kissed me on the lips, this grown woman, and I felt bashful but not cross, nor any sort of mad. I felt Woman was only of the shaming dross, once she had left and I was left alone. What else to call my spitting on the throne but sin? Iíll say it clear: I wanted her again. Somehow I knew. Iíd see her in the woods that night.
Her hips were wide, and freckled fine as dew. Her shoulders too. In among the fallen locks of thick red hair I found the Sapphic witch anew;...