May Sarton, from Recovering: A Journal
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@quotesandstardust
May Sarton, from Recovering: A Journal
Love makes us beautiful. Do you know a single person who loves and is loved, who is loved unconditionally and who, at the same time, is ugly? There’s no need to ponder the question. There is no such person.
Jan-Philipp Sendker, The Art of Hearing Heartbeats
She comprehended the perversity of life, that in the struggle lies the joy.
Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Forgive me, for all the things I did but mostly for the ones that I did not.
Donna Tartt, The Secret History
Even more terrible, as we grow old, to learn that no person, no matter how beloved, can ever truly understand us. Our own selves make us most unhappy, and that's why we're so anxious to lose them, don't you think?
Donna Tartt, The Secret History
Maybe that's what all lives were, though. Maybe even the most seemingly perfectly intense or worthwhile lives ultimately felt the same. Acres of disappointment and monotony and hurts and rivalries but with flashes of wonder and beauty. Maybe that was the only meaning that mattered. To be the world, witnessing itself.
Matt Haig, The Midnight Library
A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis
Hope was the wind that came from nowhere to fill your sails and carry you home.
Leigh Bardugo, King of Scars
Daphne du Maurier, from The Parasites
Most of us can hide our greatest hurts and longings. It’s how we survive each day. We pretend the pain isn’t there, that we are made of scars instead of wounds.
Leigh Bardugo, King of Scars
Hanif Abdurraqib, A Little Devil in America: Notes in Praise of Black Performance
Virginia Woolf, The Years
Kate Chopin, from The Awakening
[ID: A thousand emotions have swept through me to-night. I don't comprehend half of them. END ID.]
After all, the appeal to stop being yourself, even for a little while, is very great.
Donna Tartt, The Secret History
Virginia Woolf, from To the Lighthouse Susan Sontag, from Reborn: Early Diaries 1947-1963
She had learned over the years that there are wounds time does not heal, though it can reduce them to a manageable size.
Jan-Philipp Sendker, The Art of Hearing Heartbeats
― Clarice Lispector