Does 'Once And For All' Have A Happy Ending?

Fitzgerald's sudden death in 1940 is the primary reason 'The Last Tycoon' was left unfinished. He was only 44 when he passed away from a heart attack, mid-way through drafting the novel. It’s such a shame because the fragments we have are brilliant—sharp, cinematic, and full of that signature Fitzgerald melancholy. He was pouring his experiences in Hollywood into it, blending his usual themes of ambition and disillusionment with the glitz and grime of the film industry. What’s fascinating is how much of himself he put into Monroe Stahr, the protagonist. Stahr’s exhaustion, his creative battles, even his love life mirrored Fitzgerald’s own struggles. I’ve always wondered if he knew, on some level, that he might not finish it. The notes he left suggest he had a clear vision for the ending, but the man was running on fumes—financially strained, health failing, still trying to prove himself after 'Gatsby' had initially flopped. It’s heartbreaking, really, to think of what could’ve been.

I stumbled upon 'Forced To Be A Girl' a while back, and it really got me thinking about other stories that explore gender transformation themes. One that comes to mind is 'Kashimashi: Girl Meets Girl,' where a boy is turned into a girl after an alien encounter. It’s got that same mix of awkwardness and self-discovery, but with a lighter, more slice-of-life vibe. Then there’s 'Boku Girl,' which is a hilarious manga about a guy who wakes up as a girl one day and has to navigate life in a new body. The comedy is top-notch, but it also touches on deeper identity questions. If you’re into darker tones, 'After School Nightmare' might be up your alley. It’s a psychological manga where characters confront their inner struggles, including gender identity, in a surreal dream world. The art is hauntingly beautiful, and the story stays with you long after you finish it. For something more romantic, 'Hourou Musuko' (Wandering Son) is a tender exploration of two transgender kids growing up. It’s less about forced transformation and more about the natural journey of self-acceptance, but it’s incredibly moving.

I've been obsessed with dark horror stories for years, and 'Suffer the Children' by Craig DiLouie absolutely wrecked me in the best way possible. That ending isn't just a twist—it's a gut punch wrapped in existential dread. The entire novel builds around this horrifying premise: children die suddenly, only to return hungry for blood, and parents are forced to make unthinkable choices to keep them 'alive.' The finale takes this nightmare to its logical extreme, where humanity's desperation collides with something far more ancient and cruel. The last act reveals that the children's resurrection wasn't a miracle but predation. They're vessels for an entity—maybe a demon, maybe something older—that feeds on suffering. The parents' love becomes the weapon that dooms them. In the final scenes, the surviving adults realize too late that feeding their children blood only strengthens the hold of whatever's controlling them. The kids' humanity erodes completely, transforming into something hollow and ravenous. The book closes with a chilling vignette of a new 'generation' of these creatures emerging, implying the cycle will repeat endlessly. It's not just about body horror; it's about how far love can twist into complicity. The last line still haunts me: 'The children were hungry, and the world was so very full.' What makes the ending so brilliant is its ambiguity. DiLouie never spells out the entity's origins, leaving it draped in biblical and folk horror vibes. Are these fallen angels? A primal curse? The lack of answers amplifies the terror. The prose shifts from visceral gore to almost poetic despair as families fracture—some parents choosing suicide, others becoming monsters themselves to sate their kids. The final images of hollow-eyed children gathering in daylight (sunlight no longer harms them) suggest they've won. Not with screams, but with silence. It's the kind of ending that lingers like a stain, making you question every parental instinct you've ever had.

I've been flipping through 'Artificial Intelligence: A Modern Approach' for years, and it's fascinating how the languages shift with the editions. The book primarily uses Python for its practical examples, which makes sense given Python's dominance in AI research. You'll also spot Lisp popping up, especially in historical contexts—it's like the Latin of AI languages. The third edition leaned heavily on Java for object-oriented examples, though newer editions phased that out. Pseudocode appears everywhere because the concepts matter more than syntax. If you're diving in today, focus on Python; it's the lingua franca for everything from neural networks to probabilistic reasoning in the current AI landscape.

the biggest difference for me is the depth of storytelling. BL novels often explore inner monologues and emotional nuances in a way manga can't due to space constraints. For example, 'Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation' as a novel dives deep into Wei Wuxian's guilt and Lan Wangji's silent longing, while the manga adaptation focuses more on visual chemistry. Novels also tend to have slower burns with detailed world-building, like 'The Husky and His White Cat Shizun', where the trainee dynamic unfolds over hundreds of pages. Manga like 'Given' or 'Sasaki to Miyano' condense this into expressive panels—less introspection, more blushing glances and sudden confessions.

SZA has been quite private about her personal life, but she’s definitely expressed a lot of love and support for the LGBTQ+ community through her music and social media. Many fans speculate about her sexuality based on her lyrics and interviews, but she hasn’t labeled herself explicitly. It’s awesome to see her connect with people of all identities, though!

When I get stuck on something I can’t control, the names that pop into my head are the ones that people have been leaning on for centuries: Lao Tzu, the Buddha, Thich Nhat Hanh, and more recently Eckhart Tolle and poets like Rumi. Lao Tzu’s lines in the 'Tao Te Ching' — often rendered as 'By letting go it all gets done' — always feel like a soft nudge. The idea isn’t heroic struggle but gentle release, which is remarkable coming from a text that’s been translated so many ways over time. Buddha’s teachings underpin a lot of modern inner-peace quotes: his core message that attachment breeds suffering shows up in short, punchy sayings like 'Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.' Thich Nhat Hanh pumps that wisdom into modern language; I find his phrase 'Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness' wonderfully practical. Eckhart Tolle in 'The Power of Now' also frames letting go as a presence practice — he talks about releasing the hold of thought and emotion so peace can appear. I use these quotes like bookmarks in my day: a sticky note on my monitor or a deep breath before a meeting. Different authors speak to different moments — ancient phrasing for big perspective shifts, modern teachers for daily practice. If you’re hunting for one line to carry around, pick the one that makes you breathe a little easier and hang onto it for a while.

I've always been fascinated by how romance novels translate to the big screen. Some adaptations, like 'The Notebook' by Nicholas Sparks, manage to capture the emotional depth of the book almost perfectly, thanks to strong performances and faithful storytelling. Others, like 'Twilight', take creative liberties that polarize fans—some love the cinematic flair, while purists miss the book's internal monologues. The biggest challenge is condensing a 300-page novel into two hours, often sacrificing character development or subplots. For example, 'Me Before You' had to streamline several side characters, but the core romance still shone. Visual adaptations can enhance the chemistry between leads, but they rarely dive as deep into thoughts and emotions as books do.