Category: Classics

6 Steamier Sexier Sex Scenes You Should Not Be Reading!

Whether the story is fantastical or down to earth, all literature strives to cover a wide array of human emotion and experience. One of those experiences is sex, and it can be written poorly or greatly. Fifty Shades of Grey and A Song of Ice and Fire (a.k.a. Game of Thrones) do it famously, but there are other works, smaller works that are no less greater, that should be given the spotlight. Now since we aim to shine a light on all the ways literature captures the human experience, we’re going to show you six of the steamiest, sexiest sex scenes of all time.

This isn’t smut, this is art.

 

 

6-Something Red by Jennifer Gilmore

 

Jennifer Gilmore’s second novel follows the Goldstein family as they live in Washington, D.C. in 1979. We have Benjamin, who’s heading off to college, and Vanessa, a sixteen-year-old living through a rocky adolescence, Sharon, a caterer for the Washington elite, and Dennis, whose government job often takes him to Moscow.

With the Cold War waning, a new era is upon them, and the Goldsteins will be forced to confront the changes the new decade will bring.

Thus, we present to you what the Salon Good Sex Award named the sixth place winner.

 

Something Red

Image VIa Amazon

 

They took a room in the Marriott Hotel, along East-West Highway in Silver Spring, just a few miles from where she had lived for the past thirteen years. The room was twelve floors above the conference where they had each pledged to have no relations with other LEAP!ers for thirty days in order to let the high of the tenets dissipate a bit. One needs a more solid head, the leader had said. To decide such things.

Elias opened her blouse slowly, twisting each button with his thumb and third finger, then running his finger along her breastbone. When her shirt finally fell open, he studied her, then caressed her breasts. Was he putting her on? He licked her nipples, then moved his lips slowly down her stomach, and Sharon couldn’t have cared less if he was. Elias removed her underwear, and kissing her just above her pubic bone, he slipped two fingers inside her. Sharon moved into his hands until he stopped suddenly, removing his fingers as if he’d thought better of the whole thing. While Sharon propped herself up on her elbows to see what had happened, Elias got up and opened his wallet. Was he moving to pay her? Before? Or worse—and now she thought of Midnight Cowboy, she’d been so scandalized by that film—was he expecting her to pay him? She wondered how much a man like Elias would cost.

Instead, he removed a joint from the wallet, took a lighter from his front pocket, lit it up, leaned over the bed, and passed it to Sharon, who took a deep drag. She passed it back to Elias, who, still standing, took another hit. Sharon unzipped his jeans. He wasn’t wearing underwear, and Sharon could see instantly that he had a longer, thinner penis and was far hairier than Dennis, who always felt and looked unbelievably clean. Elias smelled dusky and deep, and as she leaned in, she was surprised to discover that he was uncircumcised.

After Elias had entered her and after she wrapped herself around him as he’d made love to her, allowed herself in that single moment to be carried, Sharon stood, zipped up her slacks, slipped on her blouse, and said to Elias that since he didn’t have a house to go to, he could have the room, she was going home. But then he reached his hand out and grabbed her by a belt loop.

“Stay with me.” His mouth was at her ear. He kissed her nape. “Don’t leave,” he’d said, unzipping her pants for the second time.

 

Credit: Copyright © 2010 by Jennifer Gilmore from “Something Red.”

 

5-The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides

 

First published in 1993, The Virgin Suicides gives us the quiet suburb of Detroit where the five Lisbon sisters commit suicide one by one over the course of a single year.

As the neighborhood boys observe them from afar, they soon start to piece together the mystery of the family’s fatal melancholy.

This modern classic is a coming-of-age story so, you know, they do things…

 

The Virgin Suicides (Twenty-Fifth Anniversary Edition): A Novel (Picador Modern Classics) by [Eugenides, Jeffrey]

Image Via Amazon

 

He put his hands on her shoulders, and her bare skin was cool to the touch. As their faces drew closer he was uncertain enough to think she might spring away, or hit him, movie-style, across the cheek with her open hand. Her mouth tasted of lipstick and salt. They drew away for a second, he put his arms around her and they kissed again with greater confidence. Daringly, they touched the tips of their tongues, and it was then she made the falling, sighing sound which, he realized later, marked a transformation. Until that moment, there was still something ludicrous about having a familiar face so close to one’s own. They felt watched by their bemused childhood selves. But the contact of tongues, alive and slippery muscle, moist flesh on flesh, and the strange sound it drew from her, changed that. This sound seemed to enter him, pierce him down his length so that his whole body opened up and he was able to step out of himself and kiss her freely. What had been self-conscious was now impersonal, almost abstract. The sighing noise she made was greedy and made him greedy too. He pulled her hard into the corner, between the books. As they kissed she was pulling at his clothes, plucking ineffectually at his shirt, his waistband. Their hands rolled and turned against one another as they kissing became a gnawing. She bit him on the cheeks, not quite playfully. He pulled away, then moved back and she bit him hard on his lower lip. He kissed her throat, forcing back her head against the shelves, she pulled his hair and pushed his face down against her breasts. There was some inexpert fumbling until he found her nipple, tiny and hard, and put his mouth around it. her spine went rigid, then juddered along its length. For a moment he thought she has passed out. Her arms were looped around his head and when she tightened her grip he rose through it, desperate to breathe, up to his full height and enfolded her, crushing her head against his chest. She bit him again and pulled at his shirt. When they heard a button ping against the floorboards, they had to suppress their grins and look away. Comedy would have destroyed them. She trapped his nipple between her teeth. The sensation was unbearable. He tiled her face up, and trapping her against his ribs, kissed her eyes and parted her lips with his tongue. Her helplessness drew from her again the sound like a sigh of disappointment.

At last they were strangers, their pasts were forgotten. They were also strangers to themselves who had forgotten who or where they were. The library door was thick and none of the ordinary sounds that might have reminded them, might have held them back, could reach them. They were beyond the present, outside time, with no memories and no future. They was nothing but obliterating sensation, thrilling and swelling, and the sound of fabric on fabric and skin on fabric as their limbs slid across each other in this restless, sensuous wrestling. His experience was limited and he knew only at second hand that they need not lie down. As for her, beyond all the films she had seen, and all the novels and lyrical poems she had read, she had no experience at all. Despite these limitations, it did not surprise them how clearly they knew their own needs. They were kissing again, her arms were clasped behind his head. She was licking his ear, then biting his ear lobe. Cumulatively, these bites aroused him and enraged him, goaded him. Under her dress he felt for her buttocks and squeezed hard, and half turned her to give her a retaliatory slap, but there wasn’t quite the space. Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she reached down to remove her shoes. There was more fumbling now, with buttons and positions of legs and arms. She had no experience at all. Without speaking, he guided her foot onto the lowest shelf. They were clumsy, and too selfless now to be embarrassed. When he lifted the clinging, silky dress again he though her look of uncertainty mirrored his own. But there was only one inevitable end, and there was nothing they could do but go towards it.

Supported against the corner by his weight, she once again clasped her hands behind his neck, and rested her elbows on his shoulder and continued to kiss his face. The moment itself was easy. They held their breath breath the membrane parted, and when it did she turned away quickly, but made no sound—it seemed to be a point of pride. They moved closer, deeper and then, for seconds on end, everything stopped. Instead of an ecstatic frenzy, there was stillness. They were stilled not by the astonishing fact of arrival, but by an awed sense of returns—they were face to face in the gloom, staring into what little they could see of each other’s eyes, and now it was the impersonal that dropped.

 

Credit: Copyright © 1993 by Jeffrey Eugenides from “The Virgin Suicides”

 

4-Jillian Weise’s The Colony

 

In Jillian Weise’s debut novel, we follow Anne Hatley, who has a rare gene that affects her bone growth. As a result of this abnormality, she’s missing a leg and walks around with a prosthesis. She then accepts an invitation to the nation’s largest research colony, where DNA pioneer James D. Watson hopes to “cure” Anne of her abnormality. As the first patient to generate a new limb, Anne undergoes trial and tribulations, including  a reluctant romance with a fellow colonist…

Thus, we present to you what the Salon Good Sex Awards named the fifth best sex scene of 2011.

 

The Colony: A Novel by [Weise, Jillian]

Image Via Amazon

Nick expected me to fling open the door and receive him. And if I had? If Grayson hadn’t come? Nick wasn’t the type to sweep the floor. I thought: Why are you sweeping the floor when I’m despicable? It’s exactly like you’ve suspected. You have a reason to be self-righteous, entitled, disgusted with the world. The world is disgusting. What are you going to do? He searched through his duffel bag. Moved shirts around. Unpacked and packed. He wasn’t going to do anything. I was disgusted with him, and I knew it was fucked up to be disgusted with him, since it was me who’d been caught, and I knew too that I should’ve told him. I didn’t move an inch. I stood still. Grayson played music. It was soft, dark, piano. I decided the best move, the only move I had available to me, the only one I could think of, was letting the sheet drop and climbing onto the kitchen table.”I’m heading out tomorrow.” “Why?”

“I want to see museums in the city. I can write it off. I want to see the MoMA.”

We went to bed. I went first. I picked the sheet from the floor and tucked it into the bottom corners. Grayson puttered in the kitchen. I pulled a slip from under the bed and put it on. The piano slowed and the room was quiet. I spread the comforter over the sheet and arranged the pillows. I crawled into the bed.

“You forgot to plug in.” Hw took the cord from the floor and connected it from leg to outlet. “What would you do without me to remind you?”

He climbed into bed. He waited until I was almost asleep. I was in that place, with my eyes rolled back, that liminal state, and wherever I was headed, the night had not happened. I was lying on my side, facing the wall, when I felt him on my back. I reached behind and felt for it. I had to find it through boxers and that wasn’t right; Nick didn’t wear boxers. Oh God, it wasn’t Nick. I snatched my hand back. I opened my eyes and saw my hand beside the pillow, saw my ring finger, saw a million nights of Grayson asking permission. Why was he asking? Did I always have to invite him? What did it matter if I had two legs if I had to spend the rest of my life inviting him? I remembered the evening. I saw the evening before me, we had been asleep, Nick had woken us, Nick had stayed, and it was obvious. What else happened? Was Grayson mad? Nothing else. He played music. He was leaving in the morning.

I wondered how he’d do it, if there would be him coming, as he usually did, on my stomach. He was breathing unsteadily. I wanted him to take control. He might do it. He might can. He rolled onto his back. He wasn’t going to do anything. He wasn’t going to, after all, do anything. I thought, of course, how exactly like you you are, you don’t do anything, who did I think you were? You’re not the one who does things. I have to do things, suggest them, plead for them, all the words, all the positions, all the recommendations, I do them. You can’t possibly take control. Is that it? You rolling on your back. Are we finished? You coward. “Honey,” I said. I wasn’t sure if he had fallen asleep.

I heard the sheets rustle. He was taking off his boxers. He put his hands on my shoulders. He dug his fingers into my shoulders and turned me on my back. I thought, Of course, yes, where have you been? I’ve been trying to tell you, it’s good, we’re good, we’ll be fine, this is what I meant. I had no inclination to stop him or start him or help him or pretend. I said nothing. He hooked his thumb under the strap of my slip and pulled until it came unstitched. It made a noise. Then the other strap. He grabbed the slip at the neck and pulled it down. “Where have you been,” I said. He put his hand over my mouth. He pressed his hand over my mouth while he did it. I felt the pillow under my head. I thought, you can you can. He took his hand off my mouth. His hands were on either side of me. Palms flat on the bed. I said nothing. I made none of my usual flourishes. It was the most there I had ever been for him. His right hand moved. Where was it going? There wasn’t anything there to go to. I got up, propped my elbows on the pillow, to watch him. I saw his hand reach for it. Oh not that, I thought, not that, that’s not even there, don’t do that, it’s not even there, it’s not meant for anything, who is that, you can’t, please, not that. “You’re always into it,” he said in between. “You’re always — always — into it — why aren’t you — aren’t you — why aren’t you now?”

 

Credit: Copyright © 2010 by Jillian Weise from “The Colony.”

 

3-Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow

 

This 1975 novel opens in 1906 New Rochelle, New York where on one lazy Sunday afternoon, the famous escape artist Harry Houdini swerves his car into a telephone pole outside a suburban home. From there, the line between fantasy and historical fact, between real and imaginary characters, disappears as historical figures from Henry Ford to Sigmund Freud and Emiliano Zapata slip in and out of the tale.

The book changed the concept of what a modern novel could be, adding in real and fiction at will, taking on a life on its own as the characters go through their own lives.

 

Ragtime

Image Via Amazon

 

She now stood nude in the lamplight except for her black embroidered cotton stockings which were held up by elastic bands around the thighs. Goldman rolled the stockings down and Evelyn stepped out of her stockings. She held her arms across her breasts. Goldman stood and turned her around slowly for inspection, a frown on her face.

Look at that, it’s amazing you have any circulation at all. Marks on the stays ran vertically like welts around Nesbit’s waist. The evidence of garters could be seen in the red lines running around the tops of her thighs. Women kill themselves, Goldman said. She turned back the bedcovers. She took from the top of the bureau a small black bag of the kind that doctors carried. A superb body like this and look at what you do to it.

Lie down. Evelyn sat down on the bed and looked at what was coming out of the black bag. On your stomach, Goldman said. She was holding a bottle and tilting the contents of the bottle into her cupped hand. Evelyn lay down on her stomach and Goldman applied the liquid where the marks of the stays reddened the flesh. Ow, Evelyn cried. It stings!

This is an astringent – the first thing is to restore circulation, Goldman explained as she rubbed Evelyn’s back and buttocks and thighs. Evelyn was squirming and her flesh cringing with each application. She buried her face in the pillow to smother her cries. I know, I know, Goldman said. But you will thank me. Under Goldman’s vigorous rubbing Evelyn’s flesh seemed to spring into its fullest conformations. She was shivering now and her buttocks were clenched against the invigorating chill of the astringent. Her legs squeezed together. Goldman now took from her bag a bottle of massage oil and began to knead Evelyn’s neck and shoulders and back, her thighs and calves and the soles of her feet.

Gradually Evelyn relaxed and her flesh shook and quivered under the emphatic skill of Goldman’s hands. Goldman rubbed the oil into her skin until her body found its own natural rosy white being and began to stir with self-perception. Turn over, Goldman commanded. Evelyn’s hair was now undone and lay on the pillow about her face. Her eyes were closed and her lips stretched in an involuntary smile as Goldman massaged her breasts, her stomach, her legs. Yes, even this, Emma Goldman said, briskly passing her hand over the mons. You must have the courage to live. The bedside lamp seemed to dim for a moment.

Evelyn put her own hands on her breasts and her palms rotated the nipples. Her hands swam down along her flanks. She rubbed her hips. Her feet pointed like dancer’s and her toes curled. Her pelvis rose from the bed as if seeking something in the air. Goldman was now at the bureau, capping her bottled emollient, her back to Evelyn as the younger woman began to ripple on the bed like a wave on the sea. At this moment a hoarse unearthly cry issued from the walls, the closet door flew open and Mother’s Younger Brother fell into the room, his face twisted in a paroxysm of saintly mortification. He was clutching in his hands, as if trying to choke it, a rampant penis which, scornful of his intentions, whipped him about the floor, launching to his cries of ecstasy or despair, great filamented spurts of jism that traced the air like bullets and then settled slowly over Evelyn in her bed like falling ticker tape.

 

Credit: Copyright © 1975 by E.L.  Doctorow from “Ragtime”

 

2-A Sport and a Pastime by James Salter

 

This 2006 book is one for the ages. Part fever dream, part drama, and all around romance, this story is set in provincial France in the 1960s, James Salter’s A Sport and a Pastime is the intensely carnal story―part shocking reality, part feverish dream ―of a love affair between a footloose Yale dropout and a young French girl.

 

Image Via Amazon

 

She begins to strip like a roommate and climb into bed.

They have fallen asleep. Dean wakes first, in the early afternoon. He unfastens her stockings and slowly rolls them off. Her skirt is next and then her underpants. She opens her eyes. The garter belt he leaves on, to confirm her nakedness. He rests his head there.

Her hand touches his chest and begins to fall in excruciating slow designs.

He lies still as a dog beneath it, still as an idiot.

The next morning she is recovered. His prick is hard. She takes it in her hand. They always sleep naked. Their flesh is innocent and warm. In the end she is arranged across the pillows, a ritual she accepts without a word.

It is half an hour before they fall apart, spent, and call for breakfast. She eats both her rolls and one of his.

“There was a lot,” she says.

She glistens with it. The inside of her thighs is wet.

“How long does it take to make again?” she asks.

Dean tries to think. He is remembering biology.

“Two or three days,” he guesses.

“Non, non!” she cries. That is not what she meant.

She begins to make him hard again. In a few minutes he rolls her over and puts it in as if the intermission were ended. This time she is wild. The great bed begins creaking. Her breath becomes short. Dean has to brace his hands on the wall. He hooks his knees outside her legs and drives himself deeper.

“Oh,” she breathes, “that’s the best.”

When he comes, it downs them both. They crumble like sand. He returns from the bathroom and picks up the covers from the floor. She has not moved. She lies just where she has fallen.

 

Credit: Copyright © 2006 by James Slater from “A Sport and a Pastime”

 

 

1-The Powerbook by Jeanette Winterson

 

In 2013, Winterson gave us her seventh novel where an e-mail writer called Ali offers out a service: for a price she will compose anything you like if you’re prepared to enter the story as yourself and risk leaving it as someone else. Here, you can be anything you want, but Ali learns than she too will have to pay the price.

In this book anything can happen, and something does.

 

The Powerbook

Image Via Amazon

 

“Take off your trousers and let me see you.”

So this was the moment. All would be revealed. I no longer cared. Come death, come life, there is a part to play and that is all.

Hesitatingly, I let down the blue and gold of my trousers. There was a silence. then the princess said . . .

“I have never seen a man before.”

(You’re not seeing one now.)

“The stories I have heard . . .  the fleshiness, the swelling . . .  but you are like a flower.”

(This was true.)

She touched my bulbs.

“They are like sweet chestnuts.”

(Tulips, my darling, tulips.)

She stroked the waxy coating I kept fresh to protect them. The tips of her fingers glistened.

“What do you call these?”

“This one is key of pleasure, and this one is lover’s dream.” I said this quite sincerely because it was so.

“And what do you call this?”

Her fingers had reached the centre now. I had to think fast.

“I call it my stem of spring.”

She laughed delightedly and kissed the red flower, its petals fastened tight into a head. Fortunately my mother had made it quite secure and the princess could play with it all she liked.

Then a strange thing began to happen. As the princess kissed and petted my tulip, my own sensations grew exquisite, but as yet no stronger than my astonishment, as I felt my disguise come to life. the tulip began to stand.

I looked down. There it was, making a bridge from my body to hers.

I was still wearing my tunic and the princess could not see the leather belt that carried everything with it. All she could see, all she could feel, was the eagerness of my bulbs and stem.

I kneeled down, the tulip waving at me as it had done on the hillside that afternoon I cut it down.

Very gently the princess lowered herself across my knees and I felt the firm red head and pale shaft plant itself in her body. a delicate green-tinted sap dribbled down her brown thighs.

All afternoon I fucked her.

 

Credit: Copyright © 2013 by Jeanette Winterson from “The Powerbook”

 

 

 

 

Featured Image Via Shuttershock

The Real Hogwarts Experience According to ‘My Life as a Background Slytherin’

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to go to Hogwarts while the events of the seven books were taking place? Wonder no more. Emily McGovern has laid it all out in her brilliant comic series, My Life as a Background Slytherin (and Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor). Tag yourself I guess? Here are my faves.

 

Ravenclaw

I’m just saying, her objection DOES make sense. Now, maybe this was explained in a tweet or something, I don’t know, and I frankly don’t care. Most of England is south of London, and much of Wales, as well as all of Scotland and Northern Ireland. Do they take a boat, travel down to London, then travel all the way back north to Hogwarts like, three times a year? I have questions, I tell you. Why can’t your parents just drive you and make sure your entrance is super embarrassing? No. Gotta go to London, ride a train, ride in a carriage drawn by invisible death horses. Gotta keep it simple. Am I the only one who’s got this many thoughts on this?

 

 

Gryffindor

Well, I’m not sure it’s courageous exactly, but you know if anyone was blatantly defying Umbridge for cigarettes or whatever wizard teenagers do, it would be the Gryffindors. They’re like, prohibition? Violence? Autocratic rule? Sounds like an opportunity for HIJINKS. They’re a strangely cheerful bunch. They really do make the best of Hogwarts and it’s nonsense. Painful death? Let’s check it out. Lethal forest? Sounds like good old slumber party fun. Ghosts? That’s a friend. Dangerous death match for children? Sounds like my kind of party. They might be courageous, or maybe they really just have no sense of danger whatsoever? Not judging, just saying.

 

 

Hufflepuff

These are determined people. Gotta make sure those plants are doing well. Still nice and angry. So obviously the willow was planted to protect the passage to the house in Hogsmeade where Lupin went when he transformed but actually like… think about that plan. We’ve got a werewolf student. Give him a potion to soothe him when he transforms? Maybe that’s not invented yet. Put him in a medical coma for a few days behind a screen in the hospital wing? Not extra enough. Just put him in a dungeon? The castle has plenty. No. He needs a secret tunnel, to a secret house, hidden behind a secret tree that beats up a ton of students. It’s foolproof.

 

 

Slytherin

Wizards have been persecuted in the past, so we need to make a safe place for magical children! We’ll put a giant snake dungeon, moving staircases, lots of trap doors for falling through, an evil forest with murder centaurs and spiders the size of mini vans, and let’s make ex-death eaters professors and also current death eaters, we’ll hire a werewolf and he’ll be the SAFEST one! We’ll have such beef children fight for centuries! Dementors on campus? Great idea! Child death match? Let’s do it! Dangerous time machine? She’s thirteen, she can handle it. Get locked out? Sleep in the hallway and DIE.

 

 

Featured image via My Life As A Background Slytherin

Eight Spicy Hamlet Memes

Alright, so you know we’re obsessed with SparkNotes’ twitter. Or, I am at least.  The memes are so dank. And now there’s a master list of everything they’ve posted about Hamlet, or at least a lot of it, and it’s all iconic. Here we go.

 

When Your Dad Tells You to Do Something

 

Clean my room? Murder your killer? Totally, I’ll do that right now. Just let me finish this chapter. Level. Book. I’ll TOTALLY remember the stabbing stuff after that. I’ll even clean up the blood. When I get to it. No one’s perfect, you know?

 

 

When You’re Totally Not Jealous

 

Hamlet might have been the first emo. Maybe. Certainly he was pretty early. Like, I get it man, intellectual and philosophical despair or whatever, your stepdad SUCKS, but maybe go outside. Get some sun. Maybe some soft serve. Commit a murder. Whatever works?

 

 

The Roulette Wheel of Murder Excuses

 

No, I totally didn’t kill my brother, it was, um… *turns around and furiously spins visible wheel* … a snake! Yeah. It was a snake. You know how it is. So many venomous snakes here in Denmark, it was bound to happen sometime. Totally innocent.

 

 

Ignoring the Obvious

 

Look. Your father died in a mysterious snake accident. Your uncle MARRIED YOUR MOM. That’s a yikes in any context, but it’s a super yikes here. Go and get all philosophical about it if you must, but Claudius is barely even trying to hide his misdeeds. Get to the decision, man.

 

 

Did You Ever Feel Like a Vine Could See You?

 

Look, Claudius, if you’re going to pull off a murderous coup, you’ve gotta have just like, a little tiny bit of chill. I’m not asking for a lot. This is like a vampire freaking out and running from the room every time you mention the sun. If you’re going to murder your brother, at least own it.

 

 

When the Paper is Due Tomorrow

 

Maybe just do to him whatever you did to Ophelia. Too soon? #opheliadeservedbetter Seriously though, you live with the guy. Literally just stand there and kill him when he STOPS praying. Kill him in his sleep. Do something. Honestly, Lettie, kill or do not kill, there is no try.

 

 

Absolutely No One

 

Formally. Informally. Hamlet had the emotions of a Romantic, about a hundred years too early. I feel like the romantics would have really Gotten him. (Or like, four hundred years before his time. Imagine Hamlet with a floppy fringe. I digress). Either way, he’s an emotional mess, but mostly valid. #opheliadeseRVEDBETTER

 

 

All images via Spark Notes

 

Why We Love Agatha Christie, the Queen of Mystery

If there’s one writer that any fan of mystery or crime has read, it’s the one and only Agatha Christie. The creator of the red herring has written at least seventy-two books, some featuring recurring and popular characters like Hercule Poirot, the detective with an unforgettable mustache. Yet surprisingly, Christie kept much of her personal life as mysterious as her novels. In celebration of her 129th birthday, let’s look at some of the reasons why we love the Queen of Mystery.

 

1. Hercule Poirot was based on a real person

 

Image result for hercule poirot murder on the orient express

image by the federalist

 

Hercule Poirot, the detective from Murder on the Orient Express, might seem like an odd fellow and he was just as odd in real life. Christie based Poirot off a Belgian man that she spotted on a bus in the early 1910s. The man had a memorable style of facial hair and an interesting expression that stuck with Christie long enough for her to write thirty-nine books featuring the character.

 

2. those she didn’t like became victims in her books

 

Image result for murder in mesopotamia

image by flickr.com

 

If you got on Agatha Christie’s bad side, you might end up as a victim in her books. For instance, Agatha Christie’s husband archaeologist Max Mallowan worked with an archeologist named Sir Leonard Woolley. Woolley’s wife didn’t like Christie and forced her to stay off the digging site so Mallowan had to visit her by train every day. Shortly after the incident, Christie composed Murder in Mesopotamia, in which an archeology field director’s wife was killed by bludgeoning. She even dedicated the book to the Woolleys.

 

3. she dabbled in romance

 

image by the blank garden

 

The Queen of Mystery could also write romance when she so desired. In 1930, she began writing under the pen name of Mary Westmacott. She wrote six fairly successful romance novels: Giant’s Bread, Unfinished Portrait, Absent in the Spring, The Rose and the Yew Tree, A Daughter’s a Daughter and The Burden. Christie wrote her famous mystery novels and romance novels simultaneously—a woman of good balance. In her autobiography, she said that Absent in the Spring was “the picture of a woman with a complete image of herself, of what she was, but about which she was completely mistaken. Through her own actions, her own feelings and thoughts, this would be revealed to the reader.” So not only was she mysterious, Christie was a strong female who wrote the stories of other strong females in her fiction.

 

4. She was against violence

 

Strychnine sulphate in a poison bottle

 

Agatha Christie’s murder technique of choice is often poison or her victim getting hit on the head. She avoids violent methods of murder when possible, rarely involving a gun. Hercule Poirot is also a pacifist who doesn’t carry a gun, and bystanders to crimes never shoot the attacker but may tackle him to the ground instead.

 

5. she was prone to sudden disappearances

 

Image result for agatha christie disappearance

image by anomalien

 

For ten days in 1926, Agatha Christie disappeared from her home in London. Her sudden vanishing made the newspapers, and police found her abandoned car an hour away from London. Police had to hunt for her on foot and eventually found her listening to a band at a hotel. Christie never mentioned why she had disappeared, but there are plenty of theories ranging from her need to escape her home life, a bout of amnesia, or even an attempt to boost sales.

 

6. she was dared to become a novelist

 

Image result for young agatha christie

image by thoughtco.

 

Agatha Christie’s older sister Madge dared Christie, an avid reader and writer, to try writing her own novel. Clearly Christie took that dare to the extreme. Christie’s first novel was The Mysterious Affair at Styles, written during World War I. It was accepted by John Lane in 1920 after being rejected by six publishing companies. Christie was certainly determined and talented enough to become a writer, and us readers are totally grateful for her perseverance.

 

Featured image by Goalcast

Top 7 Harry Potter Memes

Harry Potter has had twenty plus years to percolate in popular culture, and it’s produced a lot of content, including memes. Here are some funny ones.

 

He Takes His Job Seriously

 

Image via Imgur

 

The last thing Snape needs is art teacher vibes. I hate to let them down! It does make me feel like I understand Neville’s suffering though. Once in grade school, an art teacher told me I was bad at collages. I was stunned. I’m just glad I didn’t need to eat it.

 

 

Harry Potter, King of Shade

 

Image via LiveAbout

 

I’ve always said, if you can’t beat them, annoy them. It might not kill Voldy to get his name wrong, but I can’t imagine him reacting calmly. Sometimes you don’t need actual magic, just a really sick burn. Think of “no need to call me sir, professor.”

 

 

I’ve Connected Them!

 

Image via Screen Rant

 

Dumbledore, you ridiculous jumble of contradictions and eccentricities. Say what you will about Dumbledore and the wisdom of his choices either way, but he is objectively a TERRIBLE judge of character. Think of Quirrell.

 

 

Grammar is Life

 

Image via Pinterest

 

While this isn’t cannon… it’s cannon. It would be so like Hermione to just absolutely reject being killed by a mispronounced spell. Like, kill me, sure, but do it right. Here, let me help you with your murder technique. She just really couldn’t watch someone flounder.

 

 

There’s a Reason He’s Not in Ravenclaw

 

Image via Cheezburger

 

Obviously danger does follow Harry, but Harry does also follow danger. Like, anything dangerous happens, and Harry is like *butterfly meme* “Is this a situation I should get involved in?” I guess it’s what Godric Gryffindor would have wanted?

 

 

When you and Your Roommate fight

 

Image via Runt of the Web

 

I think we’ve all been there. Just pointedly staring at undone dishes and listening to top 40 music from across a small apartment. What are you guys going to do, slam your curtains? Hum loudly? You’ve got real problems, work it out!

 

Hermione’s always Been Metal

 

Image via Amino Apps

 

I mean, yeah, it would have made for a much shorter book, but I’m also not convinced it didn’t happen. Hermione is the sort of person who would be like “this is something I’ve been working on, it’s just simple” and then summon a dragon or something.

 

 

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