The longer Sacha lives the more insane she realizes the species she belongs to is.
Perhaps somewhere in all of this if you look there’s a proof of love.
Dishevelled genius; because genius doesn’t need to be hevelled, whatever hevelled is.
People like feeling. They like to be asked to feel. Feeling is a very powerful thing.
Everything means something quite other now.
The English word for summer comes from Old English sumor, from the proto-indo-european root sam, meaning both one and together.
Here’s an old story so new that it’s still in the middle of happening, writing itself right now with no knowledge of where or how it’ll end.
If people think you like them, Charlotte said, well, it can go either way. There’s a lot of powerplay in liking and being liked. Such a powerful connection, it’s a chance to make the world bigger for someone else. Or smaller. That’s always the choice we’ve got.
It’s good, to be seen past, as if you’re not the only one, as if everything isn’t happening just to you. Because you’re not. And it isn’t.
Lise was lying in bed. That was what she was doing. There was something she had to write down. She was waiting to remember it. Thoughts were slowly unearthing in her brain, like turf being turned up by someone she could make out only on the distant horizon, on the edge of a waiting field, a person made so small by distance and so slowed with age or weariness that he or she could hardly wield the spade.
Lise was lying in bed. She was falling. There.
Creativity is cultural joy because it is derivative of it, but because it aims to heal culture. Art is saturated with the unconscious acts like a compensatory dream in the individual: it tries to rebalance and address deep-rooted problems.
I can remember once sitting opposite my brother and feeling so much love for him that it was almost as though I was knitted to him.
We need both luck and justice to get to live the life we’re meant for, she says.
Later that night, when she was home and falling asleep on the couch in front of the TV, Elisabeth would remember seeing his eyes open, and how it was like that moment when you just happen to see the streetlights come on and it feels like you’re being given a gift, or a chance, or that you yourself’ve been singled out and chosen by the moment.
And on that night, when all he’s ever known in the past couple of years started to break apart, he did not try so desperately to keep her muse. He didn’t need to. He also did not soak up in bottles of rum. Instead, he went home. He went home and painted. Because before any of this has ever happened, he was a painter.
How did Dostoevsky know, she interrupted me, about that extraordinary vindictiveness, that relish for bitter laughter that comes over women in pain?
I’m composed when it comes to compost.
I can make no dent in anything. I have nothing left to break.
I personally shall be giving her the benefits of the doubt, Elisabeth said. Now you’re ready, Daniel said. Ready for what? Elisabeth said. Ready to bagatelle it as it is, Daniel said.