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Deshia's Reviews > Cleopatra and Frankenstein
Cleopatra and Frankenstein
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"Pinterest Aesthetic of Melancholy"—The Repackaged Tumblr Sad Girl Era
The whole book was giving “Pinterest aesthetic of melancholy� rather than a raw, human portrayal of pain. It’s like suffering has been turned into a moodboard—moody lighting, messy hair, delicate wrists holding a cigarette, tragic diary entries in a leather notebook. It’s all very cinematic, but when you actually live in that space, it’s exhausting. The reality of pain is not poetic; it’s draining.
Cleo was like if sad girl Tumblr had a book deal—chain-smoking, painting in a loft, and staring longingly out of windows, all while being devastatingly self-destructive but somehow still alluring. It does feel strange that in 2025, with all the conversations around mental health, people are still drawn to characters like Cleo—fragile, self-destructive, and romanticized for it. It’s almost like a relic from the Tumblr sad girl era, but instead of evolving, it’s just been repackaged for a new audience.
Maybe part of the appeal is that suffering is still seen as "deep" or "artistic" in some circles, even when we know better now. Or maybe people relate to Cleo’s struggles but haven’t yet questioned why they find them aesthetic rather than tragic. Either way, it’s frustrating when something you’ve worked so hard to move past is still being marketed as aspirational.
Meanwhile, Eleanor was out here being the only one with actual depth and humor, making everyone else look like walking cigarette fumes and bad life choices. At some point, we have to stop mistaking suffering for depth and start demanding more from the stories we consume. But until then, books like this will keep selling—and that in itself is its own kind of tragedy.
⭐️⭐️ 2/5—One star for Eleanor, one for the unintentional social commentary on the enduring appeal of tragedy as an aesthetic.
The whole book was giving “Pinterest aesthetic of melancholy� rather than a raw, human portrayal of pain. It’s like suffering has been turned into a moodboard—moody lighting, messy hair, delicate wrists holding a cigarette, tragic diary entries in a leather notebook. It’s all very cinematic, but when you actually live in that space, it’s exhausting. The reality of pain is not poetic; it’s draining.
Cleo was like if sad girl Tumblr had a book deal—chain-smoking, painting in a loft, and staring longingly out of windows, all while being devastatingly self-destructive but somehow still alluring. It does feel strange that in 2025, with all the conversations around mental health, people are still drawn to characters like Cleo—fragile, self-destructive, and romanticized for it. It’s almost like a relic from the Tumblr sad girl era, but instead of evolving, it’s just been repackaged for a new audience.
Maybe part of the appeal is that suffering is still seen as "deep" or "artistic" in some circles, even when we know better now. Or maybe people relate to Cleo’s struggles but haven’t yet questioned why they find them aesthetic rather than tragic. Either way, it’s frustrating when something you’ve worked so hard to move past is still being marketed as aspirational.
Meanwhile, Eleanor was out here being the only one with actual depth and humor, making everyone else look like walking cigarette fumes and bad life choices. At some point, we have to stop mistaking suffering for depth and start demanding more from the stories we consume. But until then, books like this will keep selling—and that in itself is its own kind of tragedy.
⭐️⭐️ 2/5—One star for Eleanor, one for the unintentional social commentary on the enduring appeal of tragedy as an aesthetic.
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Reading Progress
Finished Reading
January 10, 2024
–
Started Reading
Finished Reading
February 1, 2025
– Shelved
