—Donna Tartt, The Secret History

—Donna Tartt, The Secret History
—Donna Tartt, The Secret History
—Donna Tartt, The Secret History
—Donna Tartt, The Secret History
—Donna Tartt, The Secret History
—Donna Tartt, The Secret History

—Donna Tartt, The Secret History

More Posts from A-lady-and-her-quill and Others

2 weeks ago
"𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝘩 𝐼 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡;
"𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝘩 𝐼 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡;
"𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝘩 𝐼 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡;
"𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝘩 𝐼 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡;
"𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝘩 𝐼 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡;
"𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝘩 𝐼 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡;
"𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝘩 𝐼 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡;
"𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝘩 𝐼 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡;
"𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝘩 𝐼 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡;

"𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝘩 𝐼 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡; 𝑂𝑏𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑦, 𝐼𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑦, 𝑊𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝘩𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟. 𝐼'𝑑 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝐼'𝑑 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑠, 𝑀𝑎𝑛𝑢𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑡𝑠 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑏𝑦𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝐼'𝑑 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑛 𝐼 𝑠𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑."

― Benedict Smith


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2 months ago

A new semester has begun at my school and now I'm back to writing my thesis. Something I'm not really looking forward to but I really don't have a choice. 🥀


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1 month ago

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


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2 months ago
The Little Orphan Girl Represented Loneliness, Sadness, Being Invisible. Emilia Sat At The Window As
The Little Orphan Girl Represented Loneliness, Sadness, Being Invisible. Emilia Sat At The Window As

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.


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a-lady-and-her-quill - 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞
𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞

.₊˚.˚🌊˚.༄˖

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