“It seems to me if you add music (and books, probably, and films, and plays, and anything that makes you feel) at the center of your being, then you can’t afford to sort out your love life, start to think of it as the finished product. You’ve got to pick at it, keep it alive and in turmoil, you’ve got to pick at it and unravel it until it all comes apart and you’re compelled to start all over again. Maybe we live life at too high a pitch, those of us who absorb emotional things all day, and as a consequence we can never feel merely content: we have to be unhappy, or ecstatically, head-over-heels happy, and those states are difficult to achieve within a stable, solid relationship.”
— Nick Hornby, High Fidelity
“All the other children at my school are stupid. Except I’m not meant to call them stupid, even though this is what they are.”
— Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
“It was not the passion that was new to her, it was the yearning adoration. She knew she had always feared it, for it left her helpless; she feared it still, lest if she adored him too much, then she would lose herself, become effaced, and she did not want to be effaced, a slave, like a savage woman. She must not become a slave. She feared her adoration, yet she would not at once fight against it.”
— D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover
“I hate how I don’t feel real enough unless people are watching.”
— Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters
“Strange children should smile at each other and say, “Let’s play.””
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night
“Alice wonders if other women in the middle of the night have begun to resent their Formica.”
— Barbara Kingsolver, Pigs in Heaven
“There are white folks, and then there are ignorant motherfuckers like you.”
—Barack Obama, Dreams from My Father
“Maybe the first time you saw her you were ten. She was standing in the sun scratching her legs. Or tracing letters in the dirt with a stick. Her hair was being pulled. Or she was pulling someone’s hair. And a part of you was drawn to her, and a part of you resisted—wanting to ride off on your bicycle, kick a stone, remain uncomplicated. In the same breath you felt the strength of a man, and a self-pity that made you feel small and hurt. Part of you thought: Please don’t look at me. If you don’t, I can still turn away. And part of you thought: Look at me.”
— Nicole Krauss, The History of Love
— Nick Hornby, High Fidelity
“All the other children at my school are stupid. Except I’m not meant to call them stupid, even though this is what they are.”
— Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
“It was not the passion that was new to her, it was the yearning adoration. She knew she had always feared it, for it left her helpless; she feared it still, lest if she adored him too much, then she would lose herself, become effaced, and she did not want to be effaced, a slave, like a savage woman. She must not become a slave. She feared her adoration, yet she would not at once fight against it.”
— D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover
“I hate how I don’t feel real enough unless people are watching.”
— Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters
“Strange children should smile at each other and say, “Let’s play.””
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night
“Alice wonders if other women in the middle of the night have begun to resent their Formica.”
— Barbara Kingsolver, Pigs in Heaven
“There are white folks, and then there are ignorant motherfuckers like you.”
—Barack Obama, Dreams from My Father
“Maybe the first time you saw her you were ten. She was standing in the sun scratching her legs. Or tracing letters in the dirt with a stick. Her hair was being pulled. Or she was pulling someone’s hair. And a part of you was drawn to her, and a part of you resisted—wanting to ride off on your bicycle, kick a stone, remain uncomplicated. In the same breath you felt the strength of a man, and a self-pity that made you feel small and hurt. Part of you thought: Please don’t look at me. If you don’t, I can still turn away. And part of you thought: Look at me.”
— Nicole Krauss, The History of Love
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