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"They tried to bury me. They didn't realise I was a seed."
— Sinéad O'Connor
"Kan du förstå, att det finns något som det här stället. Med blå sjöar, som solen lyser på och glittrar på och dansar på, och ut över vattnet stå flammande träd och spegla sig – aspar och björkar som eldslågor, och vassar, som susa. Som stå och susa alldeles för sig själva och låtsas, att det är vind. Men det är ingen vind. Röken går rätt upp från skorstenen och bara darrar i små, små böjningar intill pipan, innan den stället sig rakt mot himlen. Jag skulle vilja vara en rök, som steg mot himlen i dag – steg och steg, tills den med ett är borta, tills den är upplöst i allt det blå och gyllene däruppe. Eller jag skulle vilja vara ett strå i vassen, ett guldstrå bland de andra och susa med dem. Eller ett rött aspblad i skalv över vattnet. Eller en sten, eller lite mossa, eller vad som helst – bara jag hörde till."
Nordström, Ester Blenda. Patron förlovar sig. 1933. Print.
Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)
Walt Whitman, Song of Myself. 1982.
"I knew that some victims of powerful self-loathing turn out to be dangerous, violent, reproducing the enemy who has humiliated them over and over. Others surrender their identity; melt into a structure that delivers the strong persona they lack. Most others, however, grow beyond it. But there are some who collapse, silently, anonymously, with no voice to express or acknowledge it. They are invisible. . . . Couple the vulnerability of youth with indifferent parents, dismissive adults, and a world, which, in its language, laws, and images, re-enforces despair, and the journey to destruction is sealed."
Morrison, Toni. The Bluest Eye. London, 1970. Print.
"Don't just do something; stand there."
'Why, why when I felt I had so much to offer, so much love, such outpourings of love and energy to spend on the world, I was incapable of being offered love, giving it or summoning the energy with which I knew I could transform myself and everything around me. "If they only knew!" I screamed inside. "If they only knew what I had within me. How much I can pour out, how much I have to say, how much I have inside. If they only knew!"'
— Fry, Stephen. Moab Is My Washpot. 1997. Print.
