Forever Floating In The Space Between “i Don’t Forgive You, But Please Don’t Hold Me To It” And

the way people on tiktok talk about a little life is genuinely so infuriating like the book was obviously not meant for you and reducing it down to the sequence of events is so fucked up... it's very telling that everyone in the comments of any tiktok mentioning a little life is like "i just read the wikipedia summary and now i have full authority to talk about this book and its quality/morality" literally just say you've never read anything besides ya and fanfic just admit it

priest gerard >>>>>>

i’m NEVER getting over this :0

When Fiona Apple sang, “How can I ask anyone to love me, when all I do is beg to be left alone,” and when Mitski sang, “you’re growing tired of me, and all the things I don’t talk about,” and when Julien Baker sang, “it’s not easy when what you think of me is important, and I know it shouldn’t be so damn important, but it is to me,” and when Elliott Smith sang, “I’m alone but that’s okay, I don’t mind most of the time; I don’t feel afraid to die,” and when the Front Bottoms sang, “sometimes you get sad when we’re together because you’re not sure if you’ll miss me when I’m gone,” and when

just saw your ‘about’ post— we have similar interests and you seem like such a cool person!! :)

Aw thank you!! Feel free to say hi whenever 😊😊😊 I'd be thrilled

Here it is! The full performance of Een Klein Leven, in its 4-hour-long glory. Note that the portion originally missing from the English stream is not subtitled but features precious little dialogue anyhow. My endless thanks to _ZERO-ErRoR_ZROE for putting all of it together. Further thanks to all of you who contributed your recordings–none of this would have been possible without you.

Enjoy!

(suicide cw) (a little life spoilers) I habitually go back to the last portion of the book. As I read it the first time, I was only dimly aware this was the ending. I could see the number of pages, sure, and the repetitive title of Lispenard Street was ominous enough that I should’ve known - after all, why else would you bookend it like that?

I think it didn’t hit me initially, though, because for all the arduous buildup, all the scares, this is all we get of Jude’s death.

We get the aftermath, of course (and naturally I sobbed through it) - but this is the tragedy we’re led to anticipate the whole book through, and so, aware of its inevitability, I’d expected all the magnitude of Jude’s suicide attempt, of all the tragedies that followed. But Jude’s life gets 800 pages and his death gets two sentences.

The story doesn’t end on an ending. It ends on Lispenard Street.

This is what Harold leaves us with: kindness, and a father and his grinning son reminiscing; and of course that’s how he would tell Jude’s story, of course that’s how you would speak of someone you love, after: with all the kindness of eternity. People aren’t endings. Jude’s life wasn’t a stopgap, it was the story.

I can see how A Little Life might be read as a gruesome, cobweb veiled backstory to a suicide to many. That’s certainly how Jude would see it, at times, I think; but that’s why Harold is the narrator. (Harold, to whom Jude’s life was so precious, who treasured it so wholly and selfishly, as parents often do.)

And so, as we’re taken back to Lispenard Street, I can’t possibly read this story as anything other than a love letter — from a father, to his son’s life.

Justice for "Poor Dear" Pamela

She had like 5 minutes of screentime and ate everybody up

the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.

timothée chalamet in bones and all (2022) dir. luca guadagnino

sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can’t even remember who he is. “where am i?” he asks, desperate, and then, “who am I? who am I?”

and then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, willem’s whispered incantation. “you’re jude st. francis. you are my oldest, dearest friend. you’re the son of harold stein and julia altman. you’re the friend of malcolm irvine, of jean-baptiste marion, of richard goldfarb, of andy contractor, of lucien voigt, of citizen van straaten, of rhodes arrowsmith, of elijah kozma, of phaedra de los santos, of the henry youngs. you’re a new yorker. you live in soho. you volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. you’re a swimmer. you’re a baker. you’re a cook. you’re a reader. you have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. you’re an excellent pianist. you’re an art collector. you write me lovely messages when i’m away. you’re patient. you’re generous. you’re the best listener i know. you’re the smartest person i know, in every way. you’re the bravest person i know, in every way. you’re a lawyer. you’re the chair of the litigation department at rosen pritchard and klein. you love your job; you work hard at it. you’re a mathematician. you’re a logician. you’ve tried to teach me, again and again. you were treated horribly. you came out on the other end. you were always you.”

“and who are you?”

“i’m willem ragnarsson. and i will never let you go.”