The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Gatsby

Unabridged

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"'It always has to end, doesn’t it? We always have to separate.'

'Yes,' I said.

He was insistent, 'But it doesn’t always have to be that way. We could be together someday for always.'

'Oh, no,' I told him, wondering if he knew it was all over. 'We keep running till we die. We separate; get further apart, till we are dead.'

He has no home; he is unhappy. I could be the source of his joy, the refuge of his life. And I can only pass on.

Something in me wants more. I can’t rest. Without emotion I let him kiss me. The evening had been lovely, complete. I had been alone more than I could have been had I gone by myself. The poor guy; there is no one nicer.

Perhaps someday I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated.

But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow."

-Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

"In English Class"- A Poem

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In English class

Words boil over

In a hot alphabet soup

I do not want to write

an

Expository paragraph

I want to write a

poem

Personal narratives, journal entries

I need to write a

poem

And the words flow softer,

quieter.

Finished as he’s critiquing

Telling, explaining what

We do so terribly

While I do wrong

Instead of right,

By writing what I love to

write,

Poems.

Yes.

The temperature at which book paper catches fire, and burns...

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“Number one: Do you know why books such as this are so important? Because they have quality. And what does the word quality mean? To me, it means texture. This book has pores. It has features. This book can go under the microscope. You’d find life under the glass, streaming past in infinite profusion. The more pores, the more truthfully recorded details of life per square inch you can get on a sheet of paper, the more ‘literary’ you are. That’s my definition, anyway. Telling detail. Fresh detail. The good writers touch life often.  The mediocre ones run a quick hand over her. The bad one rape her and leave for the flies.”

-Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

Hideaway

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My dream hideaway would consist of a bookstore. Inside the bookstore, the walls would be covered in old wallpaper with the colors burgundy, olive green, and gold mixed in. There would be a bay window right in the front beside the register. On display would be books stacked about 6 high and tied with worn ribbon. The store would smell of coffee and old paper. A sitting section would be in the center of the small store surrounded by mahogany bookshelves and quietness. The chairs would be soft, the kind you sink into. The books would be mostly aged, some new. It wouldn’t be a crowded bookstore, just enough regulars to keep it alive. They would be artists, writers, or young creators who like to be alone. It keeps them sane. Books would be organized in sections, but not fixed if put in the wrong section. The bookstore would be softly lit, with an old chandelier right under the entrance. This would be the comforting place where I’d hide myself away from the world.