#hope macaulay | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ccuniculusmolestus · 5 months

Text

Bunny Corcoran: Mother, Women and Sexuality (Masterpost)

Apologies for the shitty quality screenshot, idk why their quality got butchered.

Anyway I divided this thing into IV parts.

Intro

Camilla

Marion

Henry

INTRO & DISC.

Not to be a bunny apologist literally, he's sexist piece of shit, but you know whats funny? The way this fandom absolutely REFUSES to acknowledge the fact that, despite Richard's shady ass describing Bunny as "homophobic but not in a repressed way", Bunny could very well be gay or bi at the very least. The fandom just doesn't want to see it because he doesn't form "convenient" enough ships with major characters (he does. You guys are just cowards.)

Yes I know, sexist hetero men despise women just for being women, but they view women purely through a sexual lens. But Bunny's prude ass was NOT a pervert. I mean, this is the guy that got triggered when Richard asked him about his hickey.

Yes yes sexually repressed people can act prude-ish in front of people but be total pervs when alone, but nothing at all hinted at Bunny being a pervert who viewed women as walking meat bags. I just find it weird that the only two female companions he had (Marion and Camilla, aside from Judy bcs we never see them interact) he just...didn't like them. Camilla he was good to, occasionally, in a very platonic way ("paternalistic stance").

CAMILLA

And you know what drives me crazy? In this group of 5 boys and 1 girl, Bunny was the ONLY one who was never inappropriate (sexually) or sexual with Camilla. Even the openly gay guy in the group had kissed her at least once. Even her own brother-- not finishing that. Henry slept with her too. Richard kissed her, and wanted to sleep with her. Not Bunny. Yes, Bun was cruel to her in other ways, ordering her around, saying she was intellectually inferior, but he showed ZERO romantic interest in her. Which is kind of ironic to me. The only homophobe in that group was the only one not acting straight.

MARION

With Marion, my god, the way this boy behaved.

He called her his "reason of being", the purpose of his existence, but he could barely tolerate her. She was only a clip holding him together from those parts where he was falling apart; wounds left from a neglectful mother. Lets not mention how Marion is sort of an underdeveloped image of his mother; delicate, blonde, somewhat haughty.

That bitterness he probably feels towards Kathy was then pointed to Marion. Its so freaking clear that Marion is filling the "Mother" role in Bunny's life. She's "feminine" (a trait often associated with motherhood and vice versa), she's "bossy and businesslike". I don't need to explain this, I'm sure.

But watch Bunny's reactions to her; hes submissive for the most part.

For a man who's so incredibly sexist, it doesn't make sense for him to choose such a woman as his partner, does it? Now, either Richard entirely fabricated or exaggerated Bunny's sexism in order to justify his murder, or

His "dislike" for women didn't stem from the weird sexual obsessions misogynists tend to have, but from something else. It could be, purely, his mommy issues, or something else.

You know that whole, Bunny calling Marion that title, but treating her like a chore just reflects what a big performance his relationship truly was. He didn't love Marion, perhaps he liked her, appreciated or cared for her, but he didn't love her. Marion was, like every other thing in his life, just an element to uphold an image of himself. Potential beard? Maybe.

HENRY

Bunny's true "raison d'etre" might have not existed. The only person he could be said to gave been obsessed with was, truly, Henry. And im not just saying this for the sake of it. Bunny was invested in and attached to Henry, perhaps a result of his financial dependence on him.

I don't know guys, I just don't think its normal to snoop around your best friend's things often, or make multiple attempts to read their journal--

this boy was DESPERATE to know the inner workings of Henry's mind. Mind you, this is BEFORE Bunny found out about the murder, or had reason to suspect Henry for anything. Henry's said he was always nosing around for it, and he mentioned Bunny was an "obtrusive" roommate -- meaning this was normal occurrence for him around Henry. Yes, he was also kind of like this with others (Stealing stranger's foods, stealing Charles' cooking literally as he works in the kitchen) but neither of these required a sense of interest in the person he was stealing from. It was to serve his own needs.

Bunny also shows a reluctance to lose Henry.

After their fight, he's so overwhelmed that he doesn't know how to react (mentioned by Henry himself), and his first instinct is to try and cling onto whatever shred of normalcy there was left between them. Despite knowing the numerous cruel things Henry had written about him, Bunny just took it. He stayed somewhat amiable to Henry later. Yes, yes. He got annoying about "the blackmail" (or his inability to keep his mouth shut) but Henry and Francis BOTH tell Richard that Bunny doesn't see what he's doing as "blackmail".

In fact, i think Bunny the fool was trying to get "in" on the feeling of being in on a secret. Image below is regarding that German that started following them in Rome.

But his immediate reaction of pretending everything's fine isn't the first or last time he tries to keep things cool with Henry.

Henry, despite having to deal with Bunny's worst tantrums, was still treated with a degree of respect that seemed to be reserved only for him. Was he afraid of Henry? Hell no.

Bunny was never afraid of insulting Henry, or fighting with him. But he rarely ever got personal with him. Yes yes he complained about the money and every little thing, but the way he went after the rest of the class? Targeting their weaknesses? He would've known Henry's weakness, he was perceptive enough. But he didn't. He still treated Henry with respect. Deference. Described as "polite submission and respect".

With Henry, Bunny was totally emotionally vulnerable. Henry reactedd explosively twice during their arguments. The first is when he slapped Bunny so hard that he "left a big white mark on his cheek", and the second where he broke that chair when Bunny was fighting him in his room. Despite losing control, Henry maintained a level of composure. Bunny never did. He became hysterical each time, screaming and becoming violent the first time, but sobbing himself to sleep (IN HENRYS BED) the second time.

He slept in his bed. There was literally no reason for him to do that.

Except maybe he craved closure. Maybe he just missed his best friend. Maybe he was too shaken up to move from his spot.

And I don't want none of you fools being all "Henry didn't gaf about Bunny."

This is Henry's reaction to Richard essentially saying "You thought Bunny wouldn't be a problem??" And then reiterating that they're old friends.

Do you even understand the implications of that last line? Bunny, whose entire being was hidden under a carefully crafted persona, admitted his family's SHORTCOMINGS with HENRY. Bunny, whose image was everything for him. Perhaps his image WAS his raison d'etre. Bunny, who lived life as an illusion of his true self, projecting away his insecurities. Bunny, who would never admit that he was poor, that his family was flawed in any way, told Henry this. How many more things do you think he confessed, or what other parts of his past and home did he reveal?

Yes, he could have just been telling Henry those things to mooch him off, but he also mooched off his other friends.they didn't know a thing. Marion, who I believe his family hadn't met yet (?) Probably didn't even know. Amd if youre from a dysfunctional home, you already know the only people you've told about your home are special, hand-picked.

Henry was also the first and only person Bunny told about Camilla/Charles.

Perhaps it hurt him, being left out of such a major events of Henry's life because Bunny was sharing practically everything with him.

Alls I'm saying is, Henry meant more to Bunny than most people realize (and dare I say, vice versa), and the only reason people don't see it is because RICHARD didn't see it (fool saw the potential of the dynamic but then was like "nah bunny's too ugly for that").

Bunny was most definitely either a repressed bisexual/gay man, and you cannot change my mind. And while his hatred of women is vile and inexcusable, it stemmed from a place of deep personal issues and insecurities.

Anyway. I'm done rambling LOL.

#MAN I KIND OF HYPERFIXATED ONNTHIS POST MY BAD #i hope i converted some poor soul out there to winterbunny #RICHARD SLANDER FOREVER #tsh #henry winter #tsh donna tartt #winterbunny #the secret history #winterhare #camilla macaulay #richard papen #bunny corcoran #marion barnbridge #katherine corcoran

245 notes · View notes

gmaybe666 · 2 months

Text

put down ‘the secret history’ two weeks ago to make some character designs and here I am posting the final product at 4am

#gonna go back to reading it #if anyone spoils it for me I will cry so hard you will regret it #hope this reaches the right audience #hope I did them justice #the secret history #the secret history fanart #richard papen #Henry winter #camilla macaulay #charles macaulay #tumblr art #character design

108 notes · View notes

readsbydes · 2 years

Text

Oliver "I would've done anything for you" Marks & James "You've already done so much" Farrow

1K notes · View notes

glass-crabs · 6 months

Text

tsh au where bunny improves himself with the help of his friends and they treat him like a real person instead of killing him because "he's a piece of shit". tsh au where the greek class acknowledges that yes, bunny has many faults, but they stem from severe childhood trauma and neglect. tsh au where they realize that no, just because bunny had a shit childhood doesn't mean that he gets to act like a douche, but they can still treat him like a friend. tsh au where they find that while they don't have to forgive bunny for all the things he said, they could make efforts to see if he changes instead of arguing with him

#but what do i know im just a silly little guy on the internet #i hope this post doesn't spark controversy or something #im not good with words but #i fully believe that bunny could have been a good person with good ideals if he was treated with care and love #the secret history #donna tartt #henry winter #bunny corcoran #francis abernathy #charles macaulay #camilla macaulay #richard papen

60 notes · View notes

blondephenobarbitol · 1 year

Text

I can’t find it now but I remember one conversation the The Secret History that went like this:

Charles: Fuck you henry.

Henry: Could you stop saying “fuck”?

Charles: Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. You fuck my fucking sister.

Richard: woah there buddy

#i hope someone else remembers this #because if i’m making it up i’ll be sad #the secret history #tsh #donna tartt #charles macaulay #richard papen #bunny corcoran #camilla macaulay #henry winter

260 notes · View notes

embalmingparts · 23 days

Text

Funeral March

Hello The Secret History fanbase… I offer you my first TSH fanfiction. this is more an exercise in character than anything, I want to be able to write them all accurately before doing much else of substance — and I really just wanted to write the Greek class being the weirdos that they are. go easy on me but I hope this is at the very least enjoyable.

not canon compliant, Bunny is alive and they’re all friends.

Word Count: 3k

Read on AO3 or below the cut! ☕️ ☆ 🕯️

Early morning. Tall blades of unkempt grass glimmered with the shine of dew drops; wildflowers sprouted in lush patches; and damp stepping stones littered the yard. The tang of wet, damp earth lingered heavy and humid; the air thick but clean. The snow had melted in the past week, and the Greek class was enjoying early spring at Francis’ country home. The sun had barely risen above the horizon to fill the yard with light when the smell of something sickly, putrid like an overripe fruit, became abundant.

“Oh, no!” Francis cried, stopping in his tracks and glancing towards the ground. He was in shirtsleeves, and his pants were rolled up to his knees. His pale feet were bare and wet with dew, disrupting the grass where he stood, and drops of water were rolling off him and catching on the hair on his legs. Charles stood next to him, peering down to see what had gotten Francis so upset.

“Look at that, Charles,” he said, pointing to a small clump of feathers and red. “Poor thing.”

Along with rain showers, vibrant greenery, and blooms of flowers, Vermont spring brought songbirds back from a winter away. Francis’ countryside property had found itself full of small birds, singing and chirping away at all hours (starting early, a bit before sunrise, tending to wake Bunny, who decided to wake everyone else in his tired annoyance). Dashes of blue jays and sparrows and warblers in the trees, daring near the ground only in search of food.

“Oh, what a shame! What are we to do?”

“Leave it,” Charles said dismissively. “Why should we have to do anything at all?”

“Charles, look at it.”

The blond crouched down in the grass, blades thick and full, to examine the mass of feathers and, upon closer inspection, gore.

A round, cream-colored bird lay with its wings spread in its full span. Its torn open chest painted the feathers on its small body close to the shade of a cardinal — red; visceral and bloody, vermillion, wine, raw meat. Sternum to ribcage cracked open like a pomegranate, seeds torn out, thrown back on the ground to let it sink into the earth. Its neck, Charles noticed, was turned at an unnatural angle, a bite mark deep in the flesh of its throat. Viscous, sticky liquid surrounded the small corpse, still and fresh. The smell was something awful, sickening but sweet, iron. It made Charles’ stomach clench the closer he got.

Reaching for a stick, Charles ignored Francis’ wailing (‘Oh, no, Charles, don’t,’ ‘I can’t look,’ ‘Oh, forget about it,’ something in French) and poked at the bird from a distance, turning it over and around. Getting a better look at it, the bird was a dove. A white mourning dove, a dove whose coos had likely woken Bunny up in the morning.

Francis’ house had not only been a springtime retreat for birds, but also for small but vicious predators – cats, raccoons, things with claws – one of which had seemingly gotten its paws and teeth sunk into the little dove nestled in a cushion of wet grass and stirred up dirt. Despite the still warm blood on its feathers, the unnatural tilt of its neck, and its exposed and empty abdomen, it looked peaceful, as all doves should be.

Francis’ eyebrows were scrunched together in a worried, pained sort of expression. “It was probably one of those damned cats you’ve been feeding. Look at this mess,” he said. “How horrible. Little thing only wanted some seeds–” tapping his foot – “I should’ve refilled the feeder yesterday. It must’ve been hungry. Oh, we’ve got to get rid of it. It’s dreadful.”

He pulled a pack of Marlboros from his breast pocket.

Unable to rip his eyes away from the mauled remains of the gentle creature, Charles stood in his grass-stained pants, propping himself up on one knee and pushing himself up. The stick, now bloody, was still clutched in his fist.

“The cat was hungry too.”

“What?” Francis asked, wiping his eye.

“The cat that got it,” Charles repeated. “It was hungry too.”

“Oh. Well, yes… but look at it. Brutalized. Careless. A horrible way to go.”

Charles paused, examining the bird again. The curve of its wings, body sprawled on the ground, looking as if it fell right from the sky and into the jowls of a predator with sharp, sharp teeth. Predestined. Inescapable. Fate.

In a way, it was beautiful. In its death, it had fallen into a patch of daisies, fresh and new, stained a color they would never naturally grow. Spring, the season of new life, of thriving, had brought death with it, too. For in the cycle of life and death, there is a profound sense of continuity, repeating and repeating and repeating. Die. Feed. Birth. And though brutal, ripped to shreds, the dove was peaceful – nothing could last forever; nothing that was mortal could ever escape the sharp teeth of death, be it a dove caught in the claws of a feral cat, or something more. In time, it would sink into earth, and feed the plants. Become a plant itself. Grow the seeds it was hungry for. Continuous. To live forever was to die, repeat the cycle. Become again.

However, as beautiful as it may have been, it was clearly distressing to Francis, who was now through with half a cigarette.

“It wasn’t malicious, Francis. Whatever it may have been,” Charles began, “it didn’t know any better. It was hungry. Everything needs to eat, that’s just how it goes. Besides –” he took Francis’ hand in his– “it’ll feed the flowers you like so much. Fertilizer?” He offered a smile.

“Right, sure, but… can we at least, God, I don’t know. Bury it? It’s horrible to look at, and it deserves a resting place, not so out in the open.” Francis said.

–

Across the yard, back at the house, Bunny sat in a porch chair, rosy-cheeked in the morning sun and coffee cup in hand, not paying the slightest attention to Francis and Charles in the grass. He had the radio set up on the table next to him, and he was listening to some awful war song (no one was quite sure if it was on a CD of his or if he had found a military radio station) that was far too loud for the hour. The large, French-style double doors were wide open, propped with books as door stops, and the sun sank into pools of light on the dark floorboards. In the house, Camilla and Henry walked back and forth across the foyer, visible every so often – carrying things, maybe books, Henry following Camilla’s lead.

Charles yelled something and waved his arms, trying to get anyone’s attention, unsuccessfully. He yelled again, this time Bunny’s name, holding up the bloodied stick and waving it around. The blood and the look on Francis’ face seemed to be alarming.

Bunny sprung up from his chair on the porch and ran through the yard — still in his robe and pajama bottoms — his mess of unruly blond hair not fully brushed and his not fully awake body tumbling over itself. He motioned for the others, and Camilla followed him, running towards the commotion with curlers in her hair; the gentle glow of the early morning sun made her face look soft but bare, and the gray of her eyes matched the sky so perfectly they nearly disappeared into the horizon. Shortly after, Richard appeared in shirtsleeves, struggling with pulling his shoes on, his eyes (and limbs) still heavy with sleep. And Henry followed behind them, fully dressed, like a disinterested father caring for his ill-behaved children, trying to control them before anyone had had any breakfast – they’re getting fussy, and he hadn’t had his coffee yet.

Bunny and Camilla came to a grinding halt, nearly crashing into each other upon Bunny’s sudden stop, Richard close behind them. Taking his time to reach the rest, Henry strolled through the grass, admiring the flowers. Charles and Francis pointed at the ground in unison.

They stood in a circle, heads together, mess of bird between their feet.

“Oh, that’s horrible.” Camilla was the first to speak. Her voice was layered with sleep, dark like tinted glass. “How on Earth could that have happened?”

It was, evidently, unnerving. Francis explained that he thought it was a cat, and Camilla cocked her head but was shushed by Charles before she could question him. Richard tried to hide his expression, one of disgust, but his nose scrunched and his eyebrows turned up. Bunny appeared similar, hiding it less; holding his nose closed with his fingers. Henry seemed indifferent, staring at the wounded bird with a lack of emotion.

“I want to bury it. I don’t like the way it looks,” Francis said.

“It’s just a bird,” Richard interjects. “What’s so wrong about it?”

“It’s eyes are open. It’s looking at me.”

“Sure is.” Bunny agreed. His voice was nasally, more than normal, nose plugged by pointer and middle. “Nasty sight. Damn awful smell, too. We should bury it, yes, yes. Hold it a proper funeral.”

“A funeral?” Camilla asked.

“Well, sure. Can’t just bury it all unceremoniously, can we? If we’re burying it, we might as well make a show of it. None of that Catholic bullshit. A real funeral! Like the Greeks! We’ll mourn, wear all black, pray to the gods. And Henry can dig the hole.”

–

Before Henry had much of a say about digging the grave, he stood in the garden, shovel in hand – expressionless, digging a dove-sized hole under a large willow tree next to the lake. He was wearing a black pin-stripe English suit, per Bunny’s request, and was narrowly avoiding getting dirt on his freshly polished Oxfords.

Bunny, Francis, Charles, and Richard had also found themselves in black suits – pieces of Charles’ suit oversized and borrowed from Bunny, as he doesn’t wear much black, nor did he plan on attending a funeral over the weekend. Francis wore his suit over a thin, starchy white shirt with turnback cuffs, his flame-colored hair slicked back and pince-nez glimmering in the (now afternoon) sun. Richard’s was ill-fitting, tight on the elbows, and had quite a few loose threads, adorned with a little golden lapel pin, shaped like the top of an Ionic-style column. They each held flowers in their hands, taken from the garden, that Camilla and Francis had tied together with strands of twine and ribbon. Charles still held the red-stained stick.

To Henry’s left stood Bunny, ordering him to dig the hole deeper and refusing to help. He had a black sheet thrown over his shoulder, a mockery of some sort of toga. Camilla stood to Henry’s right in a knee-length black dress with sheer black stockings underneath. She held the bird in her arms, wrapped in an old curtain Francis had found in the attic, laid in a small brown box, a makeshift coffin. Flowers lay around its body, and the smell of rot had been overtaken with the smell of a strong, floral perfume — stinging cherry blossom and bitter notes of bergamot. Bunny used his pocket square to wipe the sweat off of his, and then Henry’s, brow.

The smell of freshly turned dirt, woody and sweet. The air had warmed and cleared as the early morning turned to afternoon, the dew on the grass had evaporated, and the sun reflected off the lake in a blinding, star-like way. A dense, large willow shaded the funeral part; lush curtains of green cascading off of thin branches surrounded them and swayed with the breeze. The hushing sound of wind ruffling leaves was cut through by a funeral march – Chopin’s Piano Sonata No. 2, playing on the radio sitting on the tree roots. The glow of the sun hit the backs of Bunny, Henry, and Camilla, encasing the three of them in shadow haloed in gold, like a group of God’s finest angels, harbingers of death, or vengeful creatures sent by Hades up from the underworld. Henry mumbled something unintelligible to Camilla and held the shovel to his side. With that, Bunny began:

“Lady and gentlemen, we’re gathered here today in honor of this here dove. Tragically, our little friend was taken from us much too soon. Even though it woke me up this morning, no bird deserves a fate this bad, no, no. I’m sure it had a family, a bird-wife and chicks, you know, it’s spring and all. Real sad it ended up like this, all torn apart… Anyway, enough lamenting, right? This isn’t some pious, uptight mass, no, no Hail Mary’s. This is a celebration of this bird’s life! Sending it off.

“O Hermes, messenger of the gods, we ask you to guide the soul of our dearly departed dove safely across the river of Styx. Grant passage to the underworld of Hades, and let it find peace in the Elysian Fields, or wherever doves go,” Bunny said, talking with his hands and looking to the sky, like a preacher.

He rambled on, choosing his words carefully, about the underworld and the afterlife and how even sweet little birds had to meet their makers. When he finished, he wiped away a pretend tear, and Francis clapped, everyone else following his lead. Henry stifled a smile, covering his hand with his sleeve.

Thank yous were said to Bunny, and he bowed like he was a talk show host walking off stage – see you next time, folks! – and Camilla stepped forward in his place, box in hand, standing at the head of the grave plot and glancing down into the earth.

“Put him in, little lady.” Bunny motioned with his head towards her and put a hand on the small of her back.

She nodded, crouched, and lowered the box into the hole. The dove’s feathers ruffled in the breeze, its eyes still open and glossy as it and its box-casket were placed into the earth. Camilla placed it down gently, careful not to disturb it, as if she might’ve woken it up if she jostled it around. Henry offered his hand, and she took it in hers. He pulled her up, looking like he could’ve swept her up into a press lift as if they were dancing pas de deux. When she stood, her stockings and shoes were caked with damp dirt.

“Say goodbye, gentlemen. François, any final words?” Bunny asked.

Francis stepped to the head of the plot and threw his bouquet on top of the bird. “Au revoir, mon petit amie. Live forever, and let the flowers grow on top of this awful mess of dirt.”

Following his lead, Richard threw in his bundle of wildflowers, followed by Charles’, as well as the stick that had been stained with blood. Camilla unclasped her necklace – small, gold – and threw it in unceremoniously.

Henry, who had disappeared through the flower-tossing service, had returned, a bottle of wine in hand. He stood next to Camilla, his jaw clenched and his eyes glossy behind his glasses. With a pop, the cork, too, found itself in the shallow grave. The scent of grape, aged and spiced, poured into the earth, on top of the dove, and in the box. When the bottle neared being half empty, Francis ushered him to stop, and he did – taking quite a large swig of it himself – and handed it over.

The bottle was passed around between them as Henry shoveled the dirt back onto the grave. Bunny made reception small talk about “fond memories” of the dove while Camilla sat in the grass, tying pieces of twine around a bundle of sticks and flowers.

“Did we offer enough, do you think?” Charles asked, wrapping his arm around Francis’ shoulder.

“Sure,” said Francis, the bottle clenched in hand. “I’m just glad I can’t see it anymore.” He tilted the bottle up and finished it off.

“I’m sure Bunny’s speech was more than enough,” said Henry, calm and unbothered. “We gave it a thorough send-off. Returned it to the earth. The first dove to have a real funeral like this, I’d say. If the gods choose to care about a dove, this will be the one. Besides, I’m sure your flowers will look wonderful, Francis.” He threw another large pile of dirt into the grave, twirled the shovel in his fingers, and patted the earth down. “Factum est. Camilla, would you hand me that?”

He towered over her, encasing her in his shadow, and she handed over her stick-and-twine gravemarker. It was delicately made, but the details were clumsy: knots too big and in the wrong places, flowers lacking petals, an uneven bow in the front. Henry told her it was beautiful and stuck it into packed-down earth at the head of the burial site.

The six of them stood around the grave, now marked and permanent in Francis’ yard. The dirt was the color of freshly brewed tea, ornate and flowery, shaded by the dense overhang of weeping leaves and branches. In true fashion of spring, the sun had found itself behind a blanket of gray, surrounded by curls of hazy, dark shades, accompanied by the air marginally warming.

“You know,” Bunny began, slapping Francis on the back (startling him to a jump). “Every funeral I’ve ever been to, there’s been food after. A luncheon. And –” checking his watch – “It’s almost noon; that’s lunchtime. I’m starving, gentlemen.” Before any of them could answer, Bunny was already strolling towards the house – no, the driveway.

“I think it’s going to rain,” Richard cautioned, looking at the overcast gray of the clouds narrowly closing in.

“We better hurry up, then!” Bunny yelled as he took off towards the cars – Francis’, Henry’s. “Got to beat the weather, yes, yes!”

Glances were exchanged; the twins shrugged in unison, and took off after him. Gracefully, they moved their legs identically, and their feet kicked up dirt in unison. Charles yelled for Bunny to wait, and Camilla ran beside him, giggling. Francis took Richard by the hand, running along with him, and Henry followed behind the lot of them, patting his pockets to make sure he had his wallet.

#the secret history #tsh #francis abernathy #charles macaulay #camilla macaulay #bunny corcoran #edmund corcoran #richard papen #henry winter #donna tartt #they’re all friends!!!!#mine #please enjoy. i hope this does them some justice

16 notes · View notes

ing3nues · 7 months

Text

who from the greek class would have my handwriting? greek edition

#if there is demand (or lack of it) i’ll do an english one too #hope you enjoy my Thucydides #the secret history #tsh #donna tartt #richard papen #henry winter #bunny corcoran #camilla macaulay #charles macaulay #francis abernathy

28 notes · View notes

barnbridges · 8 months

Text

References in the Secret History to facts from the opening paragraph of We Have Always Lived in the Castle:

Mary Katherine is the name given in the Epilogue to Bunny Corcoran's posthumous child, the child of Brady Corcoran and Marion. Like Merricat Blackwood, Bunny Corcoran II is indicated to not go by said name. Half of the name finds itself linked to Katherine Corcoran, who in the 2nd book of TSH finds herself a both literal and metaphorical source of poison for other characters;

The listed age of eighteen for Merricat is controversial at best, an unreliable narration at worst. It correlates with Bunny Corcoran's age discrepancy as both the oldest member of the Greek class and (allegedly) its most immature one;

Merricat's dislike of dogs, noise and showers are shared with Henry Winter's. Like Henry, Merricat often finds herself dirty in the creation of rituals to avoid bad spirits, or in the pursuit of poison, and such thinks it a disturbance to fully rid herself of elements in the ritual. Also, can be linked to Charles Macaulay's disheveled state in the 2nd book, as Merricat can likewise refuse to brush her hair and change her clothes when upset;

Charles Macaulay is the only character to have a sister, who'se name also begins with C. Constance Blackwood is not Camilla Macaulay, however;

Henry and Merricat share a passion for Mushrooms, especially deathcaps. It's unclear (but deeply implied) that Merricat used them to poison her bothersome cousin Charles Blackwood, just as Henry (likely) attempted it with his friend Charles Macaulay;

Richard Plantagenet, the specific hyperfixation of Merricat's is never mentioned openly in TSH, but Henry is passionate enough about the War of the Roses to reference it at least twice in the book. It also is not very thinly veiled that Richard Papen is the Richard of York to Henry's Shakespearean Henry VI of the popularly called Henriad. Both TSH and Castle can be certainly said to derive from the Henriad, but this is not about Shakespeare, yet;

Tartt's orphans are Charles and Camilla Macaulay, however, the concept of a dead or dysfunctional family can apply to every single one of the students (with the striking exception of Bunny Corcoran, whose family, while full ━ is dysfunctional), with Francis Abernathy's deadbeat father and problematic mother to Henry or Richard's estranged parents. None of them poisoned their parents however, as far as Richard told us at least.

#the secret history #we have always lived in the castle #merricat blackwood #constance blackwood #henry winter #richard papen #bunny corcoran #francis abernathy #charles macaulay #camilla macaulay #any jackson historians please correct me if i'm being silly #i hope i'm not #analyzing every single bit of info and crossover between the two would be impossible #so here you have *gestures*

27 notes · View notes

semperardens-juli · 1 year

Text

"Your heart might still be broken, but it isn't gone. If it was gone, you wouldn't be this nice."

Kevin McAllister to the Bird Lady, Home Alone 2: Lost in New York

leave a little kindness

#juli-quotes #home alone #macaulay culkin #kevin mcallister #pigeon lady #birdy lady #broken heart #quote #quotes #inspiring #inspire #hope #hopeful #heart #motivation #life #life quotes #movie #classic movies

47 notes · View notes

betryl · 6 months

Text

consummatum est

#ALMOST FORGOT TO POST THIS IN TIME FOR NOVEMBER 10TH #i don't like this one much anymore but i hope you do.......#the secret history #tsh #henry winter #richard papen #bunny corcoran #francis abernathy #charles macaulay #camilla macaulay #the secret history fanart #tw blo0d

209 notes · View notes

ipromiseimawriter · 1 month

Text

Why are you hanging on so tight To the rope that I'm hanging from? Off this island, this was an escape plan (this was an escape plan) Carefully timed it, so let me go And dive into the waves below

( w/emma corrin as camilla macaulay,the secret history)

"Henry's dead." "I can't help it. I still love him." "I loved him, too," I said. For just a moment, I thought I felt her waver. But then she looked away. "I know you did," she said. "But it's not enough.

#because yES. i was SEVERAL YEARS TOO LATE TO THE TUMBLR TSH SWEEP #but that will not stop me from being silly about it #hope this helps #the secret history #bookposting #camilla macaulay #labour paris paloma

11 notes · View notes

ccuniculusmolestus · 25 days

Note

What do you think about Camilla/Charles? I don't know what to think, was Camilla forced to sleep with him prior to his deterioration/alcoholism or was it out of choice earlier? Because if she was indeed initially doing it consensually.....it would baffle me, considering how romanticised she is in this fandom, and apparently criticising her means you're a misogynist.

Oh boy.....

I agree w u sooooo much. Anyway, I do think it was consensual starting out (which must have been their teens probably). Now, not to imply that power dynamics don't exist even in siblings (you know older siblings have more of an influence on a younger sibling) and you know, especially in that time, a brother would have more influence/power over a sister.

THAT BEING SAID. Them being twins becomes very significant. Not only are twins a symbolism of mirror imagery (so then they are "equals") and the power dynamic might still exist but it wouldn't be as pronounced. Additionally, Camilla and Charles' similarities are focused on intensely in the book. Donna didn't just do this randomly (writers seldom do), and she didn't do it just to focus on Camilla's boyishness, at least not in my opinion.

It leads me to believe the relationship between them very much started out consensually, though the whys might remain murky. The loss of one's parents will cause trauma and everyone deals differently w it, idk, I don't want to say it was their way of coping bcs it just seems.....weirdly disrespectful.

I see people always bashing on Charles for what he became towards the end of the book, but Richard remains a well liked figure despite literally fantasising about r wording camilla. Curious.

I like Charles, perhaps even a bit more than I like camilla. (In the first part). He seemed more human and likable to me 🤷‍♀️ Not henry, not Francis, not Richard and not camilla possessed the reluctance or empathy when they, in a very cowardly manner, murdered someone who had thought of them as friends. Richard might have expressed grief and regret later on, but I take anything he says with a grain of salt, since he most likely only wants to paint himself in a better light. It was Charles who seemed truly broken after what they did, which makes me think he was better than all of them, which makes his corruption and deterioration even more sinister and tragic.

And I'm sorry you feel that way, but its so valid. To those people who bully others for their dislike of a fictional female character (yes. Very feminist of you to bully women (and others) for not liking the fictional character you can project on. Where would international feminism be without your tumblerina war on members of a niche fandom.) Camilla is not a feminist icon. She would not like you if you were another girl in her class because she thrived off the attention she got on being the sole girl in a pack of boys. Maybe its because Richard's hyper romanticised version of her is so vivid that most of you forget what camilla really was like, and even if you dont care for/congratulate her for being a "girlboss" man manipulator (for leading them on and playing a weird game of incestous jealousy with her incestous brother)-- i dont know, incest just makes me uncomfortable, and I kinda lose respect for characters who engage in it consensually. Even if its fiction it just gives me the ick.

That being said, I don't care if this fando, romanticises camilla or kin her or project on her-- bitch idgaf. Do whatever you want, write and interpret her as you wish- the fun part about having your mind is that ITS UR MIND!!! Whatever happens there is none of my damn biz 😘 and if this answer triggered anyone, I also dgaf abt that

#wait im lowkey winning the idgaf war #valid ask anon #hope this answered it #the secret history #tsh #tsh donna tartt #richard papen #charles macaulay #camilla macaulay #asks!#ask

35 notes · View notes