DeWolfe Apts., on the Feast of St. Dominic
I went to the library today after work, and borrowed: Going Postal (the latest Discworld novel, finally), the complete poems of Baudelaire in the original French and in translation (I've wanted to read Baudelaire ever since T.S. Eliot), Five Red Herrings (the next Wimsey mystery) and Sputnik Sweetheart (to see just how strange "typical" Murakami is). I ventured for the first time to the East Asian literature wing in Widener stacks. Normally I go to Yenching for East Asian books; I was surprised to notice that Widener's collection was rather nice if a bit small in comparison to the Western literature shelves. I abhor redundancy in everything except libraries and genomes. Libraries ought to be redundant, the more so the better.
In a fit of resolution-making, I've decided that weekdays are for reading (and writing
31_days themes), while weekends are for looking up papers (I need to figure out a thesis proposal someday after all) and studying hanja. How long this resolution will last is debatable. But at least the reading part will be pleasant. Speaking of which, I managed to update the reading blog again. Am rather proud of myself, although a bit scandalized by how little I've read this past month. >_<
This fic hit me in one of those inexplicable bursts of inspiration, and I honestly didn't know I was even capable of writing something like it.
All they need
Dedicated to
faeryetale, who writes Syaoran and Sakura so beautifully
They have never said, "I love you." Four years since he returned to Japan, older, quieter, harder; four years spent side by side in a companionship so close and casual that they seem incapable of transmuting it to something more. But they look at each other with their hearts in their hands, and though their fingers never touch, they are less than a hair's width apart.
He does not consider her his ideal of feminine beauty, nor does he think her perfect. What he does know is that they can sit together on the swings in the old neighborhood playground on a winter morning and watch the first snowflakes fall. He does not need to say,
Isn't it beautiful?
She does not need to answer,
Yes, beautiful.
He does not need to wonder,
Who is there to notice the unique shape of each and every crystal?
She does not need to reply,
We are, for that is magic: to notice what passes others by.
Instead, they smile shyly at each other, rocking back and forth on those children's swings, and Sakura sticks out the tip of her tongue to catch a drop of snow. He lets his hand fall and brush against hers; that is all they need.
END
Yours &c.
I went to the library today after work, and borrowed: Going Postal (the latest Discworld novel, finally), the complete poems of Baudelaire in the original French and in translation (I've wanted to read Baudelaire ever since T.S. Eliot), Five Red Herrings (the next Wimsey mystery) and Sputnik Sweetheart (to see just how strange "typical" Murakami is). I ventured for the first time to the East Asian literature wing in Widener stacks. Normally I go to Yenching for East Asian books; I was surprised to notice that Widener's collection was rather nice if a bit small in comparison to the Western literature shelves. I abhor redundancy in everything except libraries and genomes. Libraries ought to be redundant, the more so the better.
In a fit of resolution-making, I've decided that weekdays are for reading (and writing
This fic hit me in one of those inexplicable bursts of inspiration, and I honestly didn't know I was even capable of writing something like it.
All they need
Dedicated to
They have never said, "I love you." Four years since he returned to Japan, older, quieter, harder; four years spent side by side in a companionship so close and casual that they seem incapable of transmuting it to something more. But they look at each other with their hearts in their hands, and though their fingers never touch, they are less than a hair's width apart.
He does not consider her his ideal of feminine beauty, nor does he think her perfect. What he does know is that they can sit together on the swings in the old neighborhood playground on a winter morning and watch the first snowflakes fall. He does not need to say,
Isn't it beautiful?
She does not need to answer,
Yes, beautiful.
He does not need to wonder,
Who is there to notice the unique shape of each and every crystal?
She does not need to reply,
We are, for that is magic: to notice what passes others by.
Instead, they smile shyly at each other, rocking back and forth on those children's swings, and Sakura sticks out the tip of her tongue to catch a drop of snow. He lets his hand fall and brush against hers; that is all they need.
END
Yours &c.
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Date: 2005-08-09 02:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2005-08-09 03:09 am (UTC)I know, I'm amazingly brilliant.
I'd think she WAS perfect in her eyes. AHEM.
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Date: 2005-08-10 02:40 am (UTC)*FANGIRLS!*
Yes, it's a verb.
It's been too long since I've checked up on Discworld...
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Date: 2005-08-10 02:44 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-15 05:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-16 04:26 am (UTC)