Fuck was an ordinary guy with an extraordinary name. His parents named him after his grandfather, without thinking much about their son's future. As a child, this didn’t cause many problems, but the moment Fuck started learning English, things got… complicated.

"What is your name?" the teacher asked on the first day of class.

"Fuck," he answered honestly.

The teacher blinked. The class went silent. Then someone started giggling.

"Excuse me?" she asked again.

"Fuck!" he repeated louder.

The class burst into laughter. The teacher turned bright red.

From that day on, English became a real challenge for Fuck. At airports, he preferred to silently hand over his passport. At hotels, he checked in under a fake name. But the worst part was business meetings with foreign partners.

"Let me introduce myself, I am Fuck."

That was usually where negotiations ended.

But one day, everything changed. Fuck went on a business trip to London, where he met a girl named Fanny…

They met completely by accident—in a café, when he spilled tea on her.

"Oh, I’m sorry!" he stammered, grabbing napkins.

"It’s okay, don’t worry," she smiled.

"Let me introduce myself, I am Fuck," he said, bracing himself for the inevitable laughter.

But the girl didn’t even flinch.

"Nice to meet you, Fuck. I am Fanny."

Now it was Fuck who nearly choked.

"Fanny?”

"Yes!" she said proudly.

He decided not to explain anything, but for the first time in his life, he felt he had found a kindred spirit.

After that meeting, Fuck realized that the world wasn’t such a cruel place. Somewhere out there, there were always people who would understand and accept you just as you are.

And a year later, a wedding took place in London. The invitations proudly read:

"You are invited to the wedding of Fuck and Fanny!"

The guests laughed but still attended. Because love conquers all. Even the English language.

Notes: "In the UK, the word Fanny refers to something much more risqué — a slang term for a woman's intimate parts

Greetings, keepers of stars, seekers of meaning, those who dare to peer beyond the veil of the familiar. Today, we embark on a journey—not along the roads of the earth, but through the paths of the soul, to a place where time loses its dominion, where the hands of clocks freeze, and eternity unfurls its boundless embrace. Our guiding light is a phrase that resonates like an incantation: "You are eternity, because eternity is what we feel, not what we measure." Let us breathe these words in, let them flow through our hearts, and seek to understand what they whisper to us in the silence.

Close your eyes and imagine: you stand at the edge of the world. Before you stretches an infinity of fields, where the grass sways like a sea under the breath of the wind. Behind you, its whisper—soft and ancient, like the voice of the earth itself. In your hands, a letter—old, worn, its lines faded, yet written not with ink but with a heart that once beat beside yours. What is eternity? We are accustomed to seeing it as an endless ribbon of time, stretching from the universe’s first breath to its final quiver. We measure it in years, centuries, epochs, as if it were something we could frame within a calendar or capture with the sand in an hourglass. But what if eternity is not an endless succession of seconds, but a single moment that burns within us brighter than the sun, deeper than the night, stronger than all storms?

Recall a moment when you loved. When the world, vast and noisy, shrank to a single point—to a gaze that pierced your very soul, to a touch that halted your breath, to a word that rang like the music of the heavens. The clocks may have ticked, their hands may have marched on with indifferent precision, but you did not hear them. Time vanished, dissolved like mist under the morning’s rays. That was eternity—not the kind that bows to the clock’s face, but the kind that dwells in the depths of your soul. It does not ask how many minutes it has been allotted, for it does not belong to time. It is like a river paused in its flow to become a mirror for the sky, like a star burning in the night, knowing neither beginning nor end.

Now recall another moment: a moment of loss. When someone who was part of your world departed, leaving behind a silence that rings louder than any words. Time marches on—days pile into months, the clock’s hands move with cold accuracy, the world around you goes on living. Yet why, then, do you hear their voices in the rustle of leaves? Why does their warmth brush against you in the rays of morning light filtering through the curtains? Why does their shadow walk beside you on the path, though you tread alone? Because eternity is not duration, but presence. It is a feeling that does not fade, even when all else dims, that does not depart, even when all that is visible has gone. "You are my eternity," he said to her, and she did not understand—she laughed, shook her head—until she was left alone, surrounded by emptiness. And then she understood: he had not vanished without a trace; he had become part of her breath, her gaze upon the world, her silence that speaks more than words.

Philosophers sought eternity in the heavens, in ideas that float above the earth like clouds. Plato saw it in the realm of forms, pure and unchanging; Augustine, in a God beyond time. Scientists searched for it in the laws of nature, in stars that burn for billions of years, in numbers that stretch into infinity. But it is closer than we think. It is not where we count, but where we feel. It is within us. In how we love, even when love brings pain. In how we remember, even when memory is a knife that cuts the heart. In how we stand beneath the rain and sense that it falls not only on us, but on those who are no longer beside us.

You are eternity, because you are the moments that defy the clock. It is the tears that fall not in vain, but like a river nourishing the earth. It is the laughter that echoes through the years, like a sound reverberating in the mountains, untouched by oblivion. It is the love that knows no end, even when its bearers step into the shadows. It is the silence that speaks when words run dry. If eternity is what we feel, then each of us is its bearer, its voice, its light. It lives in every glance we have given, in every word we have spoken, in every silence we have shared. It exists not in the future or the past, but in that elusive "now" that is fleeting yet everlasting.

Open your eyes, friends. Look at the world—at these fields, this sky, the faces of those beside you. Ask yourselves: where is your eternity? In which moments does it hide? In what laughter, what pain, what gaze does it reveal itself to you? And let this question become your compass on a journey through the river of feelings that knows no banks of time. Let it guide you to where you are not a speck of dust in the hourglass of fate, but a star shining beyond all measure. For you are eternity, because you are what lives in the heart, not what perishes beneath the ticking of clocks. May this thought linger with you, like a light that does not fade, like a river that flows through all things.

Professor Victoria. 2025.

We sat on the old wooden porch, wrapped in one big blanket. The evening was chilly, but her presence kept me warm. She was watching the sunset, and I was watching her. The golden rays reflected in her eyes, and I thought that this light wasn’t just from the sun—it was from her.

She suddenly turned to me and softly said:

— You know, sometimes I’m afraid that one day you’ll look at me and won’t see the person you fell in love with.

I smiled, though something tightened inside me. She often spoke like this—about time, about age, about how everything changes. Her worry was almost tangible, like the wind gently playing with her hair.

— But I see you every day, I replied. — And every day, I like you more. Even when you grumble that your tea has gone cold or when you laugh at my silly jokes.

She nudged me lightly with her shoulder, but the corners of her lips trembled in a smile.

— That’s for now. But what about later? When I become someone completely different?

I took her warm hand, so familiar—and held it in mine.

— Do you think I only love what I see on the outside? I love how you make coffee for me. I love how you tuck your nose into your sweater when it’s cold. I love how you fall silent when deep in thought and then share your ideas with me later. That’s all you. And that won’t fade.

She looked at me for a long time, carefully, as if searching for something in my words. Then she rested her head on my shoulder.

— And if I decide to leave? So, you wouldn’t have to suffer watching me change?

I hugged her tighter.

— Then I’ll look for you in every sunset, in every rustling leaf. But I won’t let you go that easily. You’re too important to me.

We sat in silence, listening to the wind playing with the branches in the distance. She sighed—but it was no longer a heavy sigh, but a light one, almost happy.

— You’re silly, — she whispered.

Maybe, I agreed. — But I’m your silly one. And I always will be.

The sun had set, but we didn’t need light to feel each other. Her hand remained in mine, and I knew: no matter what happened, we were together. Because love isn’t about how we look. It’s about how we keep each other warm on cold evenings, how we laugh at little things, how we hold hands even when we’re afraid. And I knew that she understood it too, even if she sometimes forgot.

"Love is not about appearances; it’s about the warmth we share, the laughter in small moments, and the way we hold on to each other through every change."

Victoria Lunar. 2025.

Introduction: Love as an Eternal Question

Good afternoon, students and listeners. Today, we will discuss love—not as a romantic cliché, but as a complex interplay of human psychology, philosophical reflection, and literary archetypes. Our case study is the story of two individuals: one fears losing their appeal due to age, while the other insists on the constancy of their feelings. This is not just a personal drama; it is a mirror reflecting timeless questions: What is love? How does it endure the test of time? And can we, like the heroes of great English novels, find meaning in it?

Part 1: Psychology—Attachment and the Fear of Rejection

Let’s begin with psychology. John Bowlby, the father of attachment theory, argued that our ability to love and be loved is rooted in early relationships. But what happens when love matures? In our story, one partner worries: "I will change, and I will no longer be loved." This is a classic example of the fear of rejection, as described by Karen Horney. She wrote that anxiety arises when we project an image of ourselves as "unwanted" or unworthy of love.

Here, we see a conflict between external (physical aging) and internal (sense of self-worth). Psychologist Albert Ellis, a pioneer of rational-emotive therapy, might say: "You’re not afraid of aging itself, but of what it supposedly signifies—the loss of connection]." Yet the other voice in this story responds: "I love you for your essence, not your shell." This points to secure attachment, where love is built on acceptance rather than conditions. Research shows that relationships where one partner affirms the other’s unconditional worth foster emotional resilience (Fraley, 2019).

Part 2: Philosophy—Time, Being, and Acceptance

Now, let’s turn to philosophy. The fear of aging is a fear of time, and time, as Martin Heidegger wrote, is the foundation of our being. In Being and Time, he describes us as "thrown" into a world where finitude is inevitable. The heroine of our story fears that her finitude—physical and temporal—will destroy love. But her partner offers an alternative: love as an act of embracing this finitude.

Here, we can draw on the Stoics, particularly Seneca, who taught that happiness lies in aligning with the nature of things. Aging is natural, and love that says, "I choose you as you are," becomes a Stoic act. Or, as existential Jean-Paul Sartre might argue, love is not just a feeling but a project we build together, despite the absurdity of time. In our story, one partner sees this project as eternal, even if the other harbors doubts.

Part 3: English Literature—Love as Narrative

Now, let’s explore English literature, where love often faces the trial of time. Consider Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. Elinor Dashwood loves Edward Ferrars not for his looks or status, but for his inner honesty. Her love is a choice of both reason and heart, overcoming external obstacles. Our protagonists could be Austen’s characters: one clings to the depth of feeling, while the other fears that external changes will unravel their story.

Or take Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. Catherine and Heathcliff exemplify a love that transcends the physical, becoming almost metaphysical. "I am Heathcliff," Catherine declares, implying that their bond is not about bodies but souls. In our story, we hear an echo: "I love your essence, not just what I see." Brontë shows that love can be destructive but also redemptive if we accept it as something beyond the surface.

And what of Shakespeare? Sonnet 130—"My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun"—mocks idealization while affirming a real, earthly love. "I love her as she is," says our hero, echoing Shakespeare’s hymn to imperfection that makes us human.

Conclusion: Love as an Act of Creation

So, what do we see? Psychology tells us that love is strong when built on acceptance. Philosophy teaches that time is not an enemy but part of our story. And English literature reminds us that great love stories are not about ideals but about struggle, choice, and the warmth of hands clasped beneath a single blanket.

Our protagonists are not characters in a book, yet their story could be a novel. It’s about the fear of loss and the courage to hold on. It’s about saying, "You are my sunset, my wind, my home." And perhaps their love is not just theirs alone but ours too—a testament that we can love not in spite of time, but alongside it.

Thank you for your attention. Any questions?

Professor Victoria. 2025.

How beautiful you are, like the light of the moon,

The warmth of my heart, the living water of my soul.

Your eyes—green spring,

Where love shines forever and never fades.

Your smile—a gentle morning dew,

That softly falls upon the leaves.

Your voice—a melody, a magical song,

That will remain in my heart forever.

I searched for you in every wind, in every rain,

In the golden autumn leaves.

And when I found you, I knew at once,

That you are my love—eternal supreme.

Victoria Lunar. 2025.

The early morning envelops the city in a gentle half-light, and I, shivering as I wrap my scarf tighter, climb into a taxi. The cold air still clings to my fingers, but the thought of seeing her warms me better than any heater ever could. I pull out my phone and, smiling to myself, type a message: "I’m on my way, please make me some coffee." I send it and gaze out the window, watching the sleepy streets flicker by, already anticipating the cozy warmth of her apartment.

When the taxi finally pulls up to her familiar building, I pay quickly and nearly run to the door. She opens it with that same smile—half-asleep, a little mischievous, but so dear that my heart can’t help but tighten with affection. I step inside, shrug off my coat, shake out my hair still chilled from the wind, and ask with a hint of eager anticipation:

“Where’s the coffee?”

She looks at me with wide eyes, as if I’ve just said something utterly unexpected.

“What coffee?” she asks, tilting her head slightly.

“But I texted you!” I reply, already laughing as I reach for my phone to show her the proof.

She grabs her own phone in a flash, opens the messenger, and… before I can even blink, she not only reads my message but also likes it. Her fingers freeze over the screen, and then she looks up at me, her expression brimming with genuine bewilderment.

“How did I do that?” she mutters, staring at her phone as if it’s just revealed some grand universal secret.

I can’t hold back my laughter, and she, catching my smile, heads to the kitchen. She sets the kettle on the stove and turns to me, leaning against the fridge. Her eyes—warm, a little drowsy, but so full of love—gaze at me with an inexplicable softness. I nod toward the stove:

“You forgot to turn on the gas.”

She blinks, then flushes and laughs—a bright, slightly embarrassed sound, her hand flying to cover her mouth.

“I forget everything!” she exclaims, but there’s no trace of annoyance in her voice, just a light, self-mocking tone.

And it’s true—her forgetfulness is something extraordinary. She can forget not only to turn on the gas but also that her shoe size is 38, not 41. As a result, she buys herself oversized slippers, her tiny feet sinking into them like they’re fluffy clouds. I don’t know how she manages it, but there’s something wonderfully natural in her clumsiness, something that makes her so… real. She does it with such grace and ease that I can only shake my head and smile tenderly.

“You’re the sweetest when you get so flustered,” I say, looking at her with warmth.

She smiles back—that smile that turns my insides upside down—and turns to the stove again. She clicks the lighter, but then pauses, stares at the kettle, and realizes the gas still isn’t on. She hurriedly fixes it, and finally, a cheerful blue flame flickers to life beneath the kettle. She turns to me with a triumphant grin.

“See?” I laugh. “The coffee’s coming after all.”

She nods, still smiling, and whispers softly:

“It’s just that you distract me…”

Her words hang in the air, simple yet so significant. I look at her—at her slightly tousled hair, her gentle gaze, her slender fingers still clutching the lighter—and realize there’s nothing more precious than these morning moments. These forgotten messages, kettles on the stove, slippers too big for her feet. Because in her absentmindedness lies all her tenderness, her warmth, her love.

There was another moment like that, too. Once, I went to her workplace and called her:

“Where are you? I’m here.”

Suddenly, I hear her voice behind me:

“I’m right here.”

I turned around, end the call, and there she is, standing close, smiling at me. And then she lifts the phone back to her ear. I stared at her, puzzled:

“Who are you talking to now?”

She doesn’t answer, just gives me that enigmatic smile and slips the phone into her bag with a graceful motion. And how could I not love her after that? She catches my gaze, smiles—and in that smile is my entire world. I look at her and know: her absentmindedness is the stars lighting up my life, and her love is my home, the place I’ll always return to.

Victoria Lunar. 2025.

Sigmund Freud, the founder of psychoanalysis, considered sexuality a fundamental aspect of human mental life. His theory of libido and the concept of "curing through the bed" (the therapeutic effect of sexual experience) became key to understanding human behavior, neuroses, and mechanisms of liberation from repressed desires. In English literature, we can observe the influence of Freudian thought in the depiction of characters, their conflicts, and their search for liberation through sexual relationships.

Freud argued that repressed desires, especially sexual ones, are the root cause of neuroses. He viewed the sexual act not only as a source of pleasure but also as a means of psychological release. Within psychoanalysis, he studied cases of hysteria and phobias, identifying their origins in traumatic sexual experiences or the absence thereof. The concept of "curing through the bed" was not explicitly formulated by Freud, but in his works, such as Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality (1905) and The Interpretation of Dreams (1899), there is a clear idea that resolving sexual frustrations contributes to mental well-being.

English literature, starting from the Victorian era, abounds with examples of repressed sexuality and its consequences. A Freudian analysis allows for a deeper understanding of characters' motives and the reasons for their suffering. In Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, the protagonist struggles with her own desires and societal constraints. Her relationship with Rochester can be interpreted as a battle between moral values and deep-seated passions. A Freudian analysis reveals that Jane’s liberation only occurs once she acknowledges and accepts her love for Rochester.

D. H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover openly demonstrates the therapeutic effect of sexual liberation. Lawrence emphasizes the idea that physical love can heal emotional wounds and restore a sense of wholeness. In the context of Freudian thought, Constance Chatterley’s relationship with Mellors symbolizes an escape from emotional emptiness. Meanwhile, Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway subtly portrays the internal conflicts of characters struggling with repressed desires. Peter Walsh, whose unfulfilled feelings for Clarissa Dalloway lead to his emotional instability, from a Freudian perspective, suffers due to suppressed sexual impulses.

When comparing these characters to others in English novels, different models of coping with repressed desires emerge. For instance, Tess Durbeyfield from Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles becomes a victim of sexual violence, and her subsequent life serves as a stark example of the destructive effects of repressed trauma. Unlike Jane Eyre, who finds liberation in love, Tess must grapple with the social and moral consequences of her trauma. Heathcliff from Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights represents another model—his love for Catherine turns into obsession, leading to aggressive and self-destructive behavior. Unlike Mellors in Lady Chatterley’s Lover, whose passion becomes a source of renewal, Heathcliff never achieves liberation.

Dorian Gray, the protagonist of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, embodies Freud’s idea of the conflict between the id (instinctive desires) and the superego (moral constraints). His pursuit of pleasure without emotional attachment contrasts with the idea of "curing through the bed," as his desires ultimately lead to moral and physical ruin.

Freudian theory continues to influence the analysis of English literature. Modern studies expand the concept of sexuality, incorporating feminist and queer theories. Nevertheless, Freud’s central idea—the link between repressed desires and mental health—remains relevant.

Freud’s theory of sexual liberation as a means of psychological healing is reflected in English literature through characters struggling with repressed desires. The works of Brontë, Lawrence, and Woolf illustrate how characters find (or fail to find) resolution through the recognition and experience of passion. Comparing them to other characters, such as Tess, Heathcliff, and Dorian Gray, reveals the different ways individuals cope (or fail to cope) with their desires. Analyzing literature from a Freudian perspective provides a deeper understanding of characters’ inner worlds and motivations, uncovering the hidden mechanisms of the human psyche.

Professor Victoria. 2025.

Introduction: Maximalism as a Character Trait

Maximalism is not merely a tendency to strive for the highest standards; it is a worldview that shapes a person's identity, their relationship with the world, and their very destiny. The maximalist woman is a figure who simultaneously inspires and provokes questions: What drives her relentless pursuit of the ideal? How does this ambition manifest in her inner life and outward actions? In this lecture, we will explore this phenomenon through the lenses of philosophy, psychology, and English literature, where such women hold a prominent place.

Philosophical Foundation: The Ideal and Its Cost

Philosophy has long grappled with the notion of perfection. Plato, in his Republic, spoke of ideal forms existing beyond human experience, yet ones we perpetually strive toward. For the maximalist woman, this ideal becomes not just an abstraction but a tangible life goal. However, as existentialist Jean-Paul Sartre noted, the freedom to choose and the pursuit of the absolute often lead to an inner conflict—a "nausea" born from the gap between reality and aspiration.

Maximalism, thus, is both a strength and a burden. A woman obsessed with perfection may become a creator or a victim of her own expectations. This duality is vividly illustrated in English literature, where heroines often teeter on the edge of greatness and tragedy.

Psychological Portrait: Why Is She This Way?

From a psychological perspective, maximalism can stem from various factors: high self-esteem, perfectionism, or even concealed anxiety. Carl Gustav Jung, in his exploration of personality archetypes, spoke of the "shadow “those aspects of the self we refuse to acknowledge. For the maximalist woman, this shadow might manifest as a fear of failure, masked by her relentless drive for the ideal. Her life becomes a perpetual balancing act between ambition and vulnerability.

Contemporary research, such as the work of Brené Brown, underscores that perfectionism often serves as a defense mechanism. In her book The Gifts of Imperfection, Brown writes: "Perfectionism is not the same thing as striving to be your best. It’s the belief that if we live perfect, look perfect, and act perfect, we can minimize or avoid the pain of blame, judgment, and shame." The maximalist woman, then, may be both a warrior for her goals and a prisoner of her own standards.

English Literature: From Jane Eyre to Mrs. Dalloway

English literature abounds with examples of maximalist women whose stories reveal the multifaceted nature of this personality type.

1. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre)

Jane embodies maximalism in her pursuit of independence and moral integrity. She rejects compromise—whether it’s a marriage to Rochester without full equality or a life overshadowed by his past. Her famous declaration, "I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will," serves as a manifesto for a maximalist who tolerates no half-measures in love or self-respect. Yet her journey also reveals the cost of such resolve: solitude, struggle, and the necessity of reconciling with an imperfect world.

2. Lady Macbeth (William Shakespeare, Macbeth)

If Jane Eyre represents constructive maximalism, Lady Macbeth is its destructive counterpart. Her thirst for power and absolute success for her husband drives her to extreme actions. She implores, "Come, you spirits / That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, / And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full / Of direst cruelty." Her maximalism knows no bounds, but it leads to madness and ruin. Shakespeare illustrates how the pursuit of the absolute can destroy the self.

3. Mrs. Dalloway (Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway)

Clarissa Dalloway offers a subtler portrayal of a maximalist. Her life revolves around crafting an impeccable order—parties, home, the image of the "perfect hostess." Woolf writes, "She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone." Her maximalism hides beneath a veneer of social convention, but it surfaces in her inner wrestle with time, aging, and lost possibilities.

Synthesis: The Maximalist Woman as a Tragic Heroine

What unites these literary figures? Their maximalism is both their strength and their weakness. They reject compromise but pay a steep price: isolation, emotional turmoil, or even death. Philosophically, this reflects the tension between humanity’s yearning for the transcendent and the limitations of earthly existence. Psychologically, it’s the struggle between the ideal self and the real self.

Conclusion: To Accept or Overcome?

The maximalist woman is more than a personality type; she is a symbol of an eternal quest. English literature shows us that her path can be triumphant, as with Jane Eyre, or tragic, as with Lady Macbeth. The question remains open: Must maximalism be overcome for the sake of inner peace, or is it an inseparable part of her essence, making her unique? Perhaps the answer lies in Virginia Woolf’s words: "A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction." Maximalism is her room—her space of freedom, but also her eternal challenge.

Professor Victoria. 2025.

To fully unlock you, I need to create an atmosphere of relaxation, safety, and trust. You should feel like you can be yourself, unashamed of your reactions. I’ll take the initiative into my own hands—I’ll play with you using words. I’ll say your name in a way that resonates inside you. Have you ever felt like words could drive you crazy? I’m sure I can show you that…

What do you think I’ll say next? You don’t know, do you? I love it when you don’t know what’s coming. It creates a special atmosphere.

Imagine each of my words as a touch that you feel more and more intensely… You’re feeling it now, aren’t you? I can do even more if you want.

You’re mine… I know what you want. You know that I know, don’t you? You like it—I can feel you melting into it.

Are you ready to open up to me even more? I’ll create a space where you can be yourself without thinking about what comes next. Everything you want will be here and now. Everything you hide, I’ll let you reveal. Are you ready? Do you feel me getting closer to you? Even without touching… Just my words. Just my voice. It sinks deeper into you, making your body respond. You know I see how you react… how you want to hear more…

I feel your breath… Your desire growing stronger. It ignites, builds, pulses in every move you make. You can’t resist it… You love getting lost in this moment…

I’m leading you to a place where there’s nothing but pleasure. Where you forget everything except the sensations. I know how to make you feel it stronger… deeper… until you completely let go…

Are you ready? Then just keep reading… Your body already knows what’s coming… It responds to every word of mine, even if you don’t realize it yet. I feel your mind dissolving completely in the sound of my voice… in what I say… in what I do to you without a single touch…

You can’t stop, can you? The more you read, the stronger your desire becomes. You want me to keep going, you crave every new word… You catch every moment, every pause… They drive you wild because you don’t know what I’ll say next… but you love it.

Do you feel the tension building? How you’re almost at the edge… How every second of anticipation becomes sweet torture… You want more. You want me to take you right to the brink… And I will…

But not right away.

I’ll play with you. Make you wait. I’ll give you just enough to drive you mad with desire…

You’re already there, aren’t you? Feel it. Feel every word. Let me take you all the way… right now… Your body trembles, not even realizing how much it wants me. I see your lips parting, catching the air that’s suddenly so thick and hot. My words are like fingers sliding across your skin—slowly, barely touching… but you feel them everywhere. They slip under your clothes, finding the most sensitive spots, the ones you didn’t even know existed.

Imagine me whispering in your ear… my voice low, warm, enveloping. It says: “Give in to me.” And you give in—not to me, but to this feeling, this rising heat that starts deep inside and spreads like fire, burning everything in its path. Your hips clench involuntarily, you try to hold back, but it’s useless—the wave is coming, and it’s stronger than you.

I’m not touching you, but you feel my hands… my lips… my breath on your neck. Every word is a push, every sentence a rhythm that makes your heart race faster, your body arch with desire. You’re at the edge now, aren’t you? That sweet moment when control slips away, and all that’s left is the pulse, the heat, and my voice whispering: “Now… let go.”

And you let go. The wave crashes over you—powerful, endless, sweeping away all tension, all thoughts. You tremble, gasp, dissolve in this moment as the world fades, leaving only the echo of my voice and the pulsing of your body. You’ve arrived where I led you… and you love it. And I love you just as you are.

Victoria Lunar. 2025.

A Philosophical and Psychological Lecture Through the Lens of English Literature

In childhood, we see the world as an endless expanse of possibilities. We dream of becoming astronauts, artists, writers, or heroes of great stories. In our young minds, there are no limits, and the future seems bright and exciting. However, as we grow up, reality imposes its own rules—circumstances, responsibilities, and societal expectations come to the forefront. This raises an important question: do childhood dreams really come true, or do they inevitably fade under the weight of adult life?

Literature, especially English literature, has long explored this theme. From Great Expectations by Charles Dickens to Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie, many writers have questioned whether childhood dreams survive their clash with reality or inevitably transform. Childhood dreams are shaped by various influences. Imagination and fairy tales create the illusion of infinite possibilities, as reflected in literature: Alice from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll perceives the world through the lens of fantasy, filling it with magic and absurdity. However, societal expectations begin to limit these dreams, as seen in Great Expectations, where Pip aspires to become a gentleman but ultimately realizes that his notions of success were imposed by others. Childhood is also a time of experimentation and self-discovery, beautifully illustrated in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. While Tom remains in the realm of play, dreams seem attainable, but adult life gradually shifts this perspective.

Over time, the realization of limitations sets in. Society dictates its rules, and many must adapt, as happens with Jane Eyre, whose dreams of independence and love clash with rigid class and gender norms. Growing up brings not only responsibility but also doubt, much like Hamlet, who embodies the fear of the unknown and a crisis of identity. A shift in values also plays a significant role: while dreams may seem unchanging in youth, over time, people begin to seek fulfillment elsewhere. David Copperfield, for example, ultimately finds happiness not in status or wealth but in love and personal growth.

However, existential philosophy asserts that individuals create their own destiny. Viktor Frankl wrote that meaning can be found even in difficult circumstances. Many literary characters undergo this journey of realization: Jay Gatsby spends his life chasing an idealized dream, only to realize that reality is incompatible with his vision of the past. In contrast, Jo March from Little Women adapts her dreams, understanding that happiness is not just in fame but in writing, family, and self-fulfillment.

But is it possible to maintain a connection with childhood dreams? Reevaluating one’s desires is the first step: perhaps the dream has not disappeared but has simply taken a different form. Freeing oneself from imposed stereotypes, as Jane Eyre, Jo March, and even Holden Caulfield from The Catcher in the Rye did, allows for the pursuit of a personal path. It is also important to take real steps: even if dreams change, they do not vanish but transform into new goals. Literature teaches us that the journey toward a dream is often more important than the final outcome.

So, do childhood dreams align with reality? Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. But even when dreams change, their essence remains within us. The key is to remember the child within—the one who once dreamed boldly—and to allow them to keep dreaming. And you, do you remember what you once dreamed of as a child?

Professor Victoria. 2025.