Democrat and Chronicle, Rochester, New York, December 26, 1895 Harrisburg Telegraph, Pennsylvania, February 13, 1920 The Philadelphia Inquirer, Pennsylvania, February 26, 1922 El Paso Herald, Texas, October 30, 1926 The Lincoln Star, Nebraska, June 19, 1932
A guide to being an apathetic Byronic aristocrat vampire in the 21st century
If the sun is up return to bed and wait until nighttime. There are not enough hours in the night to spend them sleeping. Once it is dark you can be all Dante Rossetti about it and stroll about some darkened woodland or else lay amongst Chinese patterned pillows in the nude reading Marcel Proust.
In fact do a great many things naked. Or if you insist do them naked under a silk robe which trails after you as you stalk the halls of your estate.
And since everyone is fated to die anyway smoke cigarettes while you can. Be blasé about death in general. Or lament it constantly – incessantly – until all who know you associate it with your presence. That is what being a Romantic is all about.
And in the spirit of Byron take such bad care of yourself – by eating badly and drinking copiously – that you might at any moment pass into that lamented great beyond. The best ways to die are in a battle or in a Revolution as well as from sloth – simply laying about wasting away transfixed by a beautiful painting or the memory of a lost lover – or finally simply succumbing to an illness procured from exposure to the harsh elements of nature. The last is the most probable since you will often find yourself standing on mountaintops above mist-laden seascapes shouting Nietzschean quotes into the frosty air and heralding your own impending doom in the process.
Read many books. Watch Orlando bySally Potterfor immortal style tips.
Become a sensual creature (as opposed to a sexually satisfied one) so that you may either conquer a harmen of lovers wherein you can loose yourself for hours on end in a kind of Delta of Venus scenario or else live as an Dionysian hermit finding solace entirely in literature, flowers and moonlight.
Be not strictly woman or man but rather an amalgamation of femininity and masculinity. Embrace bisexuality.
Keep strange pets. Anything besides a dog or cat or gerbil. Or if you must have a dog then choose a Borzoi or Wolf Hound. And if you must procure a cat then name it Lassitude or Nothing as Jean Paul Sartre did. Raise peacocks and keep a menagerie of exotic fauna and flora in an otherwise overgrown rose garden.
Half of what you say ought to be a quote by John Milton, Dante Alighieri, William Shakespeare or Oscar Wilde. Either that or nothing. If you are not reciting – either the work of others or your own – then be quiet. Observe and consider, but rarely speak.
Drink red wine. And white wine. And champagne. Do not however drink vodka unless you find yourself in the Russian Winter Palace filial roaming pale and crazy-eyed down halls with a fur coat whipping behind you and a novel by Tolstoy in your pocket.
Life is a feast. Eat oysters for breakfast and decorate your dinner table – and the food itself – with flowers. Hannibal is the go to cooking program for culinary flair.
In fact Hannibal ought to be the only tv show you watch besides Penny Dreadful.
Wear chokers. All your jewelry ought to be heirlooms.
Keep a much younger lover – if you are a woman – or a much older one – if you are a man – and have them rip the choker from your pale neck as you fall together in a passionate throw onto a 17th century ottoman.
Dress in shrouds of velvet and silk.
Stay out of the sun.
A moushe – a painted-on beauty mark – is entirely appropriate, as is a Jacobin ruff.
From now on sex shall be referred to as Making Cattleya.
Appropriate venues for socializing are cafés which do not play music or serve cappuccinos, theaters built before 1960 and opera houses not built after 1930. Jazz clubs which refrain from fusion or acid. Libraries and old cinemas in general. Family estates and parental mansions, abandoned houses in the country side, churches and cemeteries, woodland openings and castle lawns, museums and – of course – small apartments where you can sit on the floor smoke cigarettes and discuss the collective sense of ennui you share with your friends.
Inappropriate venues are shopping malls, franchise coffee shops and anywhere where reading a novel or smoking might seem out of place. In fact stay clear of any place built after 1980. Avoid food courts, gyms, sports or hotel bars and clubs with more than one dance floor as the plague.
Refer to your circle of friends as your Family. Be religiously devote and romantically involved with them. When it comes to your actually family a cool somewhat distanced relationship is the most appropriate. Or if so inclined consider a more obsessive cloistering constellation that will inevitably lead to rumors of past inbreeding – the French aristocratic kind – and scandal. Refer to your parents by their first name or not at all and thus have them remain an elusive periphery to your life.
Instead declare Richard Wagner as your emergency contact.
Descend stairwells slowly.
Express yourself through Greek axioms and lyrical poetry or lingering secretive stares. Consider perfume as a means of communication.
Remember that the only respectable means of transport are the Oriental Express, steamships across the Atlantic or long boats along the Nile. You may also travel by foot if you do so in a languid fashion. As far as tourism goes the primary vehicle of experience ought to be stargazing and kissing.
While reading Sartre’s famous existentialist work ‘Nausea’ (published 1938), I came across the lines below, and thought they would be worth sharing. It is the main character’s description of a succession of notes in a piece of Jazz he hears whilst in his local café. In the scene he is transfixed by everything he perceives around him, and is intensely focussed on even the most inconsequential details of his vision and hearing.
“There’s no melody, only notes, a host of little jolts. They know no rest, an unchanging order gives birth to them and destroys them, without ever giving them time to recover, to exist for themselves. They run, they hurry, they strike me with a sharp blow in passing and are obliterated. I should quite like to hold them back, but I know that if I managed to stop one, nothing would remain between my fingers but a vulgar, doleful sound. I must accept their death; I must even will it; I know few harsher or strong impressions.”
The piece of music in question is a recording of Shelton Brook’s ‘Some of These Days’, although which particular one is not made clear in the text. In any case it is an intriguing insight into the perspective of one of France’s greatest writers on Jazz.
French Art Deco & Streamline Moderne Style Interior of the SS Normandie.
Designer Marin-Marie gave an innovative line to Normandie, a silhouette which influenced ocean liners over the decades,
SS Normandie was an ocean liner built in Saint-Nazaire, France, for the French Line Compagnie Générale Transatlantique (CGT). She entered service in 1935 as the largest and fastest passenger ship afloat; she is still the most powerful steam turbo-electric-propelled passenger ship ever built.
During World War II, Normandie was seized by US authorities at New York and renamed USS Lafayette.
On 9 February 1942, sparks from a welding torch ignited a stack of life vests filled with flammable kapok that had been stored in the first-class lounge and the fire spread rapidly.
The ship was stripped of superstructure and righted in 1943 in the world’s most expensive salvage operation. She was reclassified to an aircraft and transport ferry on 15 September 1943 and placed in dry dock the following month.
Lafayette was stricken from the Naval Vessel Register on 11 October 1945.
She was cut up for scrap beginning in October 1946 at Port Newark, New Jersey, and completely scrapped by 31 December 1948.
Idk where you want requests... Sorry, here goes: I thought you were my best friend so I jumped on you, but it turns out your just a really famous singer trying to get some shopping done without being noticed. Sorry? Or I'm a cop and you hate it, cause you're always worrying about me, but I love that I get to help people, and we try to work it out. Fluffy and worrying. Idk, those were bad, I'm sorry! But love your writing!!! And thank you, sorry if this is the wrong place.
A/N Thank you so much for your requests!! They are both awesome! This is exactly where they should be sent. I decided to go with the first one but may revisit the other at a later date because it seems pretty cool. Thank you for reading my stuff, I hope you enjoy this!
Thirty minutes late. I sighed, pulling out my phone and verifying the time. I should be used to this by now but it was still frustrating. It sucked to be always on time, to stress about punctuality, and then get rewarded for my promptness by waiting for everyone else to arrive. My best friend, Oliver, was the worst offender. Knowing him he’d found some hot guy on his way into the store and was currently chatting up his latest conquest, oblivious to the fact that I was haunting the home goods store, circling the aisles in a random pattern and avoiding the workers.
“Where are you?” I texted him, considering 30 minutes enough time waiting to not be considered a nag. And really, to be fair (to me), it was 45 minutes. Like the neurotic freak I am, I had arrived 15 minutes early. The sales people in the store probably thought I was nuts.
I did another circle of the lighting department, staring at the ornate lamps on display and fingering the delicate tassels on the shades. There was a blue Victorian inspired one I was especially fond of. I was ogling the intricate embroidery on it when I finally spotted him. His back was to me but I recognized his slim build with surprisingly broad shoulders. His dark hair was covered by a baseball cap.
Sneaking up behind him, I put my hands on his shoulders and jumped on his back. “Finally!” I said, “I’ve been waiting for you for ages.”
“What the fuck?” I instantly went stiff, sliding down his back and stepping away, my eyes growing wide. Fuck! Oliver didn’t have an Irish accent.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorr…” I started to apologize, absolutely mortified. The words died on my lips as my poor accosted stranger turned and I was confronted by the bluest eyes I have ever seen. His forehead was creased as he looked at me, obviously annoyed by my assault. He was fidgeting irritably with a phone and water bottle in his hands, shifting them from one to the other as he took a deep breath.
“Look, I woulda taken a picture with ya. You didn’t need to jump on me.”