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Lord Byron - Blog Posts
Person A: hey why do you look so tired and have bite marks all over your neck?
Person B, who got fucked within an inch of their life the night before and is about to invent vampires: oh haven’t you heard?
I need you're help guys!
guys I haven't written in so long but I really want to so help a person out
new acquisition

aah byron, the queen of all drama queens.
Me: “I think I’ll start reading Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage! It seemed pretty good from the excerpts Ive read in English class”
Also me: *literally googling every other word in the first Canto*
no because imagine having to sit through byron scream singing in albanian
“May I just say, you are quite lovely in a crisis.”
“No, you may not!”
I’m screaming 😂
Cool Romanticism Facts
-Lord Byron was the inspiration for his doctor Polidori’s vampire, Lord Ruthven. He’s also a national hero in Greece, because he died fighting in their War of Independence against the Ottoman Empire.
-Mary Shelley is best known for Frankenstein and editing her husband’s work. However, she wrote several other novels. She was bisexual, and had a relationship with Jane Williams, which ended badly.
-Claire Clairemont in addition to having an illegitimate child by Byron, was fluent in five languages, including French. She outlived the majority of Byron and Shelley’s social circle.
-Percy Shelley was expelled from Oxford for his atheism, and died in a shipwreck. The death of Claire Clairemont’s illegitimate daughter by Byron haunted him.
Percy, holding the door for Mary: After you :)
Mary: No, after you :)
Percy: I insist, after you :)
Byron, pushing pass the both of them: No, after me.
This is both hilarious and accurate for Lord Byron, who really was that arrogant.
Does being a bisexual pagan count? :P
today is byron’s birthday which means it’s time to do your most, your worst, and cause scandal.
don’t disappoint him
Red changes in the sky
Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home; Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, He had the passion and the power to roam; The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, Were unto him companionship;
G.G.Byron
A Love Letter to History
(if you could call it that)
On a cold January morning in 1914, James Joyce published the first part of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. In that very part, on a similarly cold morning just after Christmas Break, Stephen Dedalus stood huddled with other Clongowes students and watched the snow moulding itself around their boots, wondering what made Simon Moonan and Tusker Boyle, in all their ordinariness, kiss in the square.
Napoleon Bonaparte was not born Napoleon Bonaparte. He was born Napoleon Buonaparte. Napoleon Buonaparte was not born in France, but he was born French enough. Of course, they’ve forgotten that by now. They often aren’t allowed to remind themselves, either.
There is very little to say about Fahrenheit 451 that it has not already said about itself. Any review of it is only ever a paraphrasing of some chapter or other, intentionally or otherwise. In the past twenty years, it has been banned at least ten times in the US alone. I imagine censoring a book about censorship gave many people the opportunity to pat themselves on the back. Unfortunately, their intentions, however malevolent, are misplaced. In the book, the people are on the side of banning books. There is no oppression, and no need for revolution. The bars caging a mind are not so easy to topple. The guillotine falls over an empty basket, and symbolism overflows from an empty cup. There is nothing to overthrow when the fault lies with time.
History. What a heavy word.
Christopher Marlow was excommunicated by the Church, and so was one of Shakespeare’s daughters. It is claimed that he based Ophelia off of his wife. I wonder why.
Five years after that day in the square, Stephen Dedalus refused to back down from his claim of Byron’s brilliance. Words like 'blasphemous' and 'irreligious' pooled around his feet. He cupped his hands in the water and lapped it up. Everything I write now contains some shred of Stephen’s name. I wonder why.
Why is a muse called a muse? To muse is to think, to think deeply. Is a muse’s job to be a conductor of thought? Must all thought be equivalent to love? Why does the word smell like the thickest honey? Why does it sit so heavily on my tongue?
Icarus never meant to fall. If he raced toward the sun, it was only to prove that he could. And he was never on fire. Oh, he burned, alright — the melting wax made sure of it. Did he grasp at the feathers as they came free from the harness? Did he watch them drifting towards the sea? Did he notice anything happening at all? For a moment, a brief, shining moment, the sun was neither hope nor doom, but triumph.
I never could write anything on either the 31st or the 1st. There is something about endings, and something about beginnings. The sun dawned the same on New Year’s Day, but at the stroke of midnight, my phone sang like I lived my whole life before the first light.
Fifteen years after that day in the square, Stephen Dedalus parted with Cranly, unafraid of being alone,
“— and not have any one person who would more than a friend, more even than the noblest and truest friend a man ever had.”
“Of whom are you speaking?” Stephen asked at length.
Cranly did not answer.
They met again, and sixteen years after Oscar’s death, James Joyce retraced his name in “Wilde’s love that dare not speak its name” in a book I have yet to read.
It’s funny how they ban books written centuries ago. Congratulations, Ronald, a pre-industrialization schoolmaster had a broader mind than yours. A clod of dirt shifts as Shakespeare turns in his grave.
History. What a heavy word. I used to think we owed it something.
For one like I'll share my smash or pass list of famous poets.
(I really want to share it.)
Cape Sunion is the farthest point of mainland Greece. In ancient times it was considered a sacred place; from its steep cliffs the mythical king of Athens, Theseus, thinking that his son Theseus had been killed in battle with the Minotaur after seeing the black sails on his ship, threw himself into the sea (hence the name Aegean), on the walls of the ruins of the ancient temple of Poseidon, which rises on the cliffs from where you can enjoy spectacular views of the Aegean Sea and where Lord Byron engraved his name.
Przylądek Sunion jest najdalej wysuniętym punktem Grecji kontynentalnej. W czasach starożytnych był uważany za święte miejsce, z jego stromych klifów mityczny król Aten Egeusz, myśląc, że jego syn Tezeusz zginął w walce z Minotaurem po tym, jak zobaczył czarne żagle na jego statku, rzucił się do morza (stąd nazwa Morza Egejskiego), na ścianach ruin starożytnej świątyni Posejdona, która wznosi się na klifach, skąd można podziwiać spektakularne widoki na Morze Egejskie i gdzie Lord Byron wyrył swoje imię.
i don’t care if it’s cliché to love the dead poet’s society. it’s a brilliant story and if loving it is wrong, i’ll never be right.
Lord Byron — To the Countess of Blessington
a twitter thread that actually killed me
