Lily Evans trying to work through her anxiety attacks after a not so very charming summer.
Taken by Remus Lupin who had went to visit her, 1975.
Oregon. English Major. Caffeine Enthusiast.
|The Fool:||Something you've always wanted to try|
|The Magician:||Something you're very good at|
|The High Priestess:||One thing you wish you knew|
|The Empress:||A woman you really admire|
|The Emperor:||A man you really admire|
|The Hierophant:||Something you believe in|
|The Lovers:||A person who makes you very happy|
|The Chariot:||A prize or award you've won|
|Strength:||Something you struggle with|
|The Hermit:||Favourite way to spend a day alone|
|The Wheel Of Fortune:||Something you wish you could change|
|Justice:||A decision you wish you could do over|
|The Hanged Man:||A time when you wished someone would listen to you|
|Death:||Someone you really miss|
|Temperance:||Your ideal day|
|The Devil:||Who you talk to when you're dealing with big issues|
|The Tower:||Something that changed your life|
|The Star:||Someone you consider perfect|
|The Moon:||Something you fear|
|The Sun:||Your happiest memory|
|Judgement:||Your favourite song(s)|
|The World:||Your dream job|
Spend a little more time trying to make something of yourself & a little less time trying to impress people.
The Breakfast Club (1985)
A muggle-born’s sibling sends them a howler in the middle of the school year and it arrives while they eat. When they open it, all it does is simply scream “WHAT TEAM?”. Nearly all the muggle-borns shout “WILDCATS!” before returning to their meal, leaving the pure-bloods in total confusion of what the hell they just witnessed.
For many of these women, the reading experience begins from a place of seething rage. Take Sara Marcus’ initial impression of Jack Kerouac: “I remember putting On the Road down the first time a woman was mentioned. I was just like: ‘Fuck. You.’ I was probably 15 or 16. And over the coming years I realized that it was this canonical work, so I tried to return to it, but every time I was just like, ‘Fuck you.’” Tortorici had a similarly visceral reaction to Charles Bukowski: “I will never forget reading Bukowski’s Post Office and feeling so horrible, the way that the narrator describes the thickness of ugly women’s legs. I think it was the first time I felt like a book that I was trying to identify with rejected me. Though I did absorb it, and of course it made me hate my body or whatever.” Emily Witt turned to masculine texts to access a sexual language that was absent from books about women, but found herself turned off by their take: “many of the great classic coming-of-age novels about the female experience don’t openly discuss sex,” she says in No Regrets. “I read the ones by men instead, until I was like, ‘I cannot read another passage about masturbation. I can’t. It was like a pile of Kleenex.”
This isn’t just about the books. When young women read the hyper-masculine literary canon—what Emily Gould calls the “midcentury misogynists,” staffed with the likes of Roth, Mailer, and Miller—their discomfort is punctuated by the knowledge that their male peers are reading these books, identifying with them, and acting out their perspectives and narratives. These writers are celebrated by the society that we live in, even the one who stabbed his wife. In No Regrets, Elif Bautman talks about reading Henry Miller for the first time because she had a “serious crush” on a guy who said his were “the best books ever,” and that guy’s real-life recommendation exacerbated her distaste for the fictional. When she read Miller, “I felt so alienated by the books, and then thinking about this guy, and it was so hot and summertime … I just wanted to kill myself. … He compared women to soup.”