realising i'm quite literally henry winter because everything i do, say, have needs to fit into my picturesque/aesthetic or i'll go crazy and shoot myself.
the depression i fell into after reading the secret history
i just wanna be an a boat with Henry winter as he yaps about how weird technology is
"are you happy here?"
"not particularly, but you're not happy where you are, either"
has been haunting me for days, every fucking day i wake up and think about this.
i am ready to read another donna tartt book if it means getting closure of the secret history like in goldfinch when it says that "mr. abernathy divorced man" you get me? like it doesn't even need to be a lot just a sentence subtly mentioning that the alive characters of the secret history had something good in the end
henry winter is one of kind man. you will never see someone written so maniacally obsessed with Greek and rituals and cult like that man is. i have no words to explain it but you will never see Henry winter in anybody else because Henry winter is Henry winter and I am Henry winter's widow.
#THE SECRET HISTORY SPOILERS
why did Henry have to die. why. why. why. WHY. i finished the book last night and i still can't stop crying. I reread the epilogue and it just hurts like. its embarrassing enough to be in love with a sociopath but crying over him continously is beyond. and everyone just being so drifted apart like. why does charles get a happy ending and not camilla.