Tuesday, July 28, 2015
What Wizarding Job Should You Have Based On Your Zodiac Sign?
Find out what job you were destined to have!
Airbnb Reviews For Famous Homes In Literature
1 star for 4 Privet Drive.
Maritsa Patrinos / Flickr: anupshah / Creative Commons
Cabin on Walden Pond
One word: transcendental. A perfect place to bathe in solitude. One morning, I looked out over the pond and saw the sun reflecting off the water and I understood that the water, the light, the earth, me, we're all on a continuum—there is no end to it and no end to me. I realized I do not need the many contrivances I tinker with; I do not need my ex-boyfriend, Allan. I only need my hands and my mind and the earth underneath my toes. And maybe some alcohol. And, I suppose, a Netflix subscription. And, of course, money.
4 Privet Drive
Accio my weekend back. The hosts put me in a cupboard under the stairs and asked me suspicious questions about owls. On my second day, I exited the cupboard and found the younger host waiting for me. He asked if I was "waiting for [my] letter." I was like, "What?" He asked me how old I was, and when I replied, "30," he said, "Never mind, you're too old." Rude.
Pemberley
On arriving at the grand estate, my heart did whisper that I had found somewhere incomparable—but, alas, my heart did also whisper that I missed Allan. He would have loved to walk through the gardens and dance in the great halls. What folly that we ended our relationship! He was ever slightly too daft and I, too judgmental. Oh well, la la la, the teas I had during my stay were splendid. It's fine.
Jordan College
Impossible to find! And not because I have a terrible sense of direction, ALLAN. I mean, how many Oxfords are there?! You better believe that when the dust settles, I'm getting my money back.
The Ramsay Summer Home
A delightful summer home with quaint rooms and gorgeous views. From my window, I gazed upon a lighthouse and thought to myself, Tomorrow, I shall go to the lighthouse. But then a terrible worry came over me, that the winds would be too strong, and that I should not venture out. And then I thought: how can I ever really know anyone?
221b Baker Street
Worst place ever, case closed. I never met the host, but judging by the cast of characters who knocked on the door, the omnipresent smell of smoke, and the skull sitting on the coffee table, I can only deduce that he is some sort of drug dealer. I also didn't see any recycling bins. :(
Thornfield Hall
Forget that this place is creepy and empty and haunted. Let's talk about the host. Helloooo, tall, dark and handsome! When I confronted him about the sexual tension between us, he told me he was "otherwise taken." And I said, "By whom? That old bag of bones in the attic? Yea, I figured it out." I'm waiting for him to return my calls…
Satis House
The clocks didn't work and I felt, all at once, a victim to time and age and not being married. If my next boyfriend — let's just call him Mr. Rochester — favors me, should I love him? If he wounds me, should I love him? If he tears my heart to pieces, should I love him still? And as my heart grows older and stronger, and that ensuing tear all the deeper, should I love him, love him, love him? Sigh. Idk.
Bag End
The accommodations were so cozy and comfortable, perfect for napping all day—but also, paradoxically, perfect for creating an insatiable thirst for adventure. The only thing I did not appreciate was the host's constant attempts to feed me. Eggs, potatoes, pickles, raspberry jam, cheese, chicken, cakes—all of it, he tried to shove down my throat while prattling on about second dinners. Ummm, what?! I finally had to sit him down and tell him that I've had trouble eating due to recent heartbreak and did not appreciate being pressured. He apologized and we hugged it out.
The Wall
Cons: Cold. Very, very cold. Like, winter is coming. Unpleasant conversations about wars and who everyone's mothers are. Felt like I might die at any moment. Zero vegetarian options.
Pros: Posing with a sword makes for some great Instagram pics. Lots of single men. LOTS. I believe I've found a new boyfriend. He's rugged, trained to follow orders, and knows all about commitment. So take that, Allan—and Mr. Rochester.
17 Foods That Taste Better With A Book
No smudges on the pages, please!
Scrambled eggs and toast make for quite a balanced literary breakfast.
Eggs Benedict won't betray this read!
A smoothie with a side of Gooch.
Bonus points if your berries match your book!
23 Life-Changing Things You Can Read Right Now
Guaranteed pick-me-ups, in under a half hour.
Tim P. Whitby / Getty Images
23 Things All "Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy" Fans Will Find Funny
The Guide is definitive. Reality is frequently inaccurate.
Waking up to this:
This cloud:
This truth:
This captcha:
Are You More Hermione Granger Or Katniss Everdeen?
Are you a winsome witch or a terrific Tribute?
Warner Bros. Pictures / Lionsgate / Nina Mohan for BuzzFeed
19 Books To Read If You Loved "Paper Towns"
If you’ve already read everything by John Green.
Farrah Penn for BuzzFeed
Saving June by Hannah Harrington
Why you'll love it: After the devastating death of Harper's older sister, June, Harper and her BFF decide to secretly road trip to California to spread her ashes. But what she doesn't expect is to be accompanied by Jake Tolan, who has a connection to June that Harper wants to crack. If you enjoyed the adventure and the beautiful, lyrical quotes in Paper Towns, you'll surely enjoy Saving June.
Harlequin
Reunited by Hilary Weisman Graham
Why you'll love it: On the brink of graduation, three friends decide to embark on a cross country road to see a reunion show of their once favorite band, despite having a fallout in their friendship freshman year. If you enjoyed the strong themes of friendship and quirky characters in Paper Towns, you're sure to devour Reunited.
Simon and Schuster
Bone Gap by Laura Ruby
Why you'll love it: When Roza goes missing, the people of Bone Gap think she decided to leave on her own accord. But Finn knows that's not the case. He thinks she's been kidnapped — only no one believes him. This is a hauntingly beautiful book that, much like Paper Towns, will engross you with its intriguing plot.
Balzer + Bray
Are These Quotes From "Fifty Shades Of Grey" Or "Twilight"?
Mr. Cullen will see you now.
The Struggle Of Being Both A Parent And A Writer
“I can’t decide: Was it a good trade?”
Maritsa Patrinos / BuzzFeed
The books that I can't finish have been stripped of their dust jackets. They lie scattered around the house, the author's name a reproach along the spine. In the bedroom, Haruki Murakami's half-read 1Q84 is the bedrock of a tower of other books — all read, some more than once — that has grown tall in the past year. In the living room, The Kept, by James Scott, one of my former teachers, nestles among tooth-shredded board books and crumpled copies of Highlights magazine; its pages are by far the most pristine on the shelf.
It would be kindest to explain these books, and their cohorts, with a sheepish smile and a carnival barker's sweeping arm: Witness the coffee can of stubby crayons at the dining room table! Step lively — there are Cheerios underfoot! Of course I don't finish books; I have two children, ages 4 and 2.
The truth is less spectacle than private shame: I read a lot, almost as much as I did before I had kids. The first months of my baby's life coincided with another blessed arrival — that of my e-reader — and in his earliest weeks of 24-hour nursing and soothing, I finished 42 books. But I can no longer read books, or write stories, in which terrible things happen to children. As a reader, depictions of child suffering yank me violently from the safe world of narrative and into real, corporeal panic. As a writer, an unwelcome foreboding prevents me from letting my deepest fears pour out onto the page.
I am a better mother for this bargain, more capable of shaking off a parent's day-to-day anxieties without such ugly imagery residing in my head. I am also an incomplete reader and a constricted writer, these once-dominant parts of me now halved and quartered.
I can't decide: Was it a good trade?
Maritsa Patrinos / BuzzFeed
A teacher told me that the key to writing fiction is not to look into your own heart, but to try to see into someone else's. I took it as my credo with no qualms. I had no trauma to reveal, no compelling secrets; where else would I find my subjects if not within others?
Yet even as I squeezed into the minds and bodies of the characters I invented, details from my own life crept in. I began writing fiction at the end of the tumultuous year after my boyfriend's stepfather's death, never realizing how much of the experience was still churning inside me until I turned it loose in my stories. The images snapped to life like a flame: the Orthodox Jewish funeral, where I policed the buffet table to prevent violations of kosher law; the collage of children's art on the kitchen wall, where fifth-grade masterpieces shed crumbling poster paint; the bereft cocker spaniel, who hurled his creaking frame against the bathroom door whenever I closed it behind me.
I knew that I couldn't tell these stories from my own point of view — I was weary, angry, and obsessive over trivialities. So I invented other protagonists and had them examine the situation with something like detachment, finding their own emotions from a different source. I pulled the threads of my own narrative and spooled them out until I could look at the whole experience with a distant, critical eye. My own struggles faded. I was empowered, having rewritten my own story until it was one I could embrace. I got married, to the same boyfriend, and started a graduate program in creative writing.
There, I grew bolder. I took on stories about my fears: secrets kept between husband and wife, jealous siblings who drove a wedge into marriages. I wrote about the shifts and tests of adulthood, efforts to buy a home, succeed at a job, have children. I remember my first story about pregnancy loss: In it, a woman attends a party with all of her friends, a few days after experiencing a miscarriage. Her friends all knew of the pregnancy, but she cannot bring herself to tell them of its end. I remember feeling proud as my character's growing anxiety poured out in paragraphs, leaving me clear-eyed and calm behind the keyboard.
I finished graduate school. I kept working on those stories, revising, polishing, in some cases starting all over again. I sent them out, got them back, and sent them out again.
Then I got pregnant, and a line was drawn, as dark and vivid as the streak of melanin crossing the arc of my belly: Part of the world was off-limits to me now.
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