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NURSE  Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet (Act 1, Scene 3)

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NURSE [...] And since that time it is eleven years. For then she could stand high-lone. Nay, by th’ rood, She could have run and waddled all about, For even the day before, she broke her brow, And then my husband (God be with his soul, He was a merry man) took up the child. “Yea,” quoth he, “Dost thou fall upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit, Wilt thou not, Jule?” And, by my holidam, The pretty wretch left crying and said “Ay.” To see now how a jest shall come about! I warrant, an I should live a thousand years, I never should forget it. “Wilt thou not, Jule?” quoth he. And, pretty fool, it stinted and said “Ay.”

LADY CAPULET  Enough of this. I pray thee, hold thy peace.

NURSE  Yes, madam, yet I cannot choose but laugh To think it should leave crying and say “Ay.” And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow A bump as big as a young cock’rel’s stone, A perilous knock, and it cried bitterly. “Yea,” quoth my husband. “Fall’st upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age, Wilt thou not, Jule?” It stinted and said “Ay.”

Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet (Act 1, Scene 3)

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BENVOLIO [...] Go thither, and with unattainted eye Compare her face with some that I shall show, And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.

ROMEO  When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire; And these who, often drowned, could never die, Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars. One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun.

Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet (Act 1, Scene 2)

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Wine knows how to adorn the most sordid hovel With marvelous luxury And make more than one fabulous portal appear In the gold of its red mist Like a sun setting in a cloudy sky. Opium magnifies that which is limitless, Lengthens the unlimited, Makes time deeper, hollows out voluptuousness, And with dark, gloomy pleasures Fills the soul beyond its capacity. All that is not equal to the poison which flows From your eyes, from your green eyes, Lakes where my soul trembles and sees its evil side... My dreams come in multitude To slake their thirst in those bitter gulfs. All that is not equal to the awful wonder Of your biting saliva, Charged with madness, that plunges my remorseless soul Into oblivion And rolls it in a swoon to the shores of death.

— Baudelaire, Poison, trans. William Aggeler

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ROMEO Not mad, but bound more than a madman is, Shut up in prison, kept without my food, Whipped and tormented, and—good e’en, good fellow.

Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet (Act 1, Scene 2)

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CAPULET And too soon marred are those so early made. Earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she; She’s the hopeful lady of my earth.

Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet (Act 1, Scene 2)

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ROMEO Tut, I have lost myself. I am not here. This is not Romeo. He’s some other where.

Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet (Act 1, scene 1)

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BENVOLIO Good morrow, cousin.

ROMEO Is the day so young?

BENVOLIO  But new struck nine.

ROMEO Ay me, sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast?

Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet (Act 1, Scene 1)

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ROMEO Alas that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will! Where shall we dine?—O me! What fray was here? Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love. Why then, O brawling love, O loving hate, O anything of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh?

Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet (Act 1, Scene 1)

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TYBALT What, drawn and talk of peace? I hate the word As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.

Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet (Act 1, Scene 1)

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When I was eleven and Juliet eight years of age, a cousin of mine, much older than either—he seemed to us a man—took great notice of my playmate; he called her his bride, and asked her to marry him. She refused, and he insisted, drawing her unwillingly towards him. With the countenance and emotions of a maniac I threw myself on him—I strove to draw his sword—I clung to his neck with the ferocious resolve to strangle him: he was obliged to call for assistance to disengage himself from me. On that night I led Juliet to the chapel of our house: I made her touch the sacred relics—I harrowed her child’s heart, and profaned her child’s lips with an oath, that she would be mine, and mine only.

Mary Shelley, Transformation

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If someone asks me, “Why do you write?” I can reply by pointing out that it is a very dumb question. Nevertheless, there is an answer. I write because I hate. A lot. Hard.

William Gass, The Art of Fiction No. 65

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Getting even is one great reason for writing.

William Gass, The Art of Fiction No. 65

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This distressed me, for it reminded me of my father trying to arrange my life without regard for what would make me happy; my life was a business transaction and was to be handled efficiently. These people treated Emilia in the same manner, and so I felt protective toward her. She radiated pleasure and contentment during dinner, however; if that is indeed how her parents managed her life, she either did not mind it as I did, or hid her resentment much better than I could. I doubted it was the latter. She was simply more at peace in the world than I was.

Nicole Galland, I, Iago

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I slowly strolled one side of the hall and was dazzled by the number of gentlemen and even ladies ogling me, to the point of ignoring the transvestite ballet taking place in the center of the room.

I was treated as if I were an exotic feathered bird, and Roderigo was being subtly congratulated for having tethered me.

Nicole Galland, I, Iago

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“If I handle myself well, I might start a mania for swarthiness among Venetian dandies,” I said sardonically.

“I am not remotely entertaining,” I assured him. “But it sounds as if you are, so I will willingly get drunk with you. As long as you get a little sun on your face. I cannot have a serious conversation with a man so pale. Roderigo, my friend, you look like a prostitute.”

Nicole Galland, I, Iago

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Father, having read it, did not look impressed or even interested. My stomach clenched a little. Somehow, I thought my transformation would have effected a transformation within him too. But he was the same cold man who did not know quite what to do with this extra son he’d spawned. “I am glad,” he said, “that you have redeemed the memory of your brother’s life. You were worthy of that task, from all that I have read in reports home from your instructors. Indeed, your gun-master seems to think you have some kind of genius.”

Nicole Galland, I, Iago