Décor pour L'Après-midi d'un Faune.
Léon Bakst, 1911.
Do you know of any books/poems/short stories that are an atmospheric sort of good? The words that seem to seep into your skin and leave holes in your organs? Perhaps they've left lead in your blood, or maybe it's the way they leave you reeling weeks after you've read them? I know that this is (obviously) a very personal experience with individual stories, so I wouldn't expect a specific genre, if that makes sense? Anyways, thanks so much, and I hope not to bother you.