one thing i have learned this year reading a lot of old-timey diaries is that they straight up did not know anything about medicine. i mean less than nothing. sylvia plath writes in her journal that she’s got a bad cold but fortunately the doctor has prescribed her some cocaine drops so she should be okay. louisa may alcott is like well i am in horrible pain for no apparent reason (after being treated with mercury for the fever she developed working as a nurse in a civil war hospital) but fortunately i am able to sleep pretty well at night thanks to this opium i’ve been prescribed. franz kafka is totally fine all spring and summer just writing about going out for coffee and seeing plays with his friends and then november hits and he’s like “i am in agony life is meaningless i am a worm upon the earth” and it truly is like franz buy a sun lamp king
(via bowtie-loving-alien)
