Drunk on Literature

You’re like the ocean. Pretty enough on the surface, but dive down into your depths, you’ll find beauty most people never see. Lucky me. I fell in, headfirst.

Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

I need to find something that I must do, something undeniable. I can’t do this, I can’t just be a wife. I don’t understand how anyone does it—there is literally nothing to do but wait. Wait for a man to come home and love you. Either that or look around for something to distract you.

I never felt like that before. Maybe it could be depression, like you get. I can understand how you suffer now when you're depressed; I always thought you liked it and I thought you could have snapped yourself out any time, if not alone then by means of the mood organ. But when you get that depressed you don't care. Apathy, because you've lost a sense of worth. It doesn't matter whether you feel better because you have no worth.

You will be required to do wrong no matter where you go. It is the basic condition of life, to be required to violate your own identity. At some time, every creature which lives must do so. It is the ultimate shadow, the defeat of creation; this is the curse at work, the curse that feeds on all life. Everywhere in the universe.

I usually solve problems by letting them devour me.

My schedule for today lists a six-hour self-accusatory depression.

He hit me again. But the tears weren’t coming. My eyes were strangely dry. I thought about killing him. That there must be a way to kill him. In a couple of years, I could beat him to death. But I wanted him now. He wasn’t much of anything. I must have been adopted. He hit me again. The pain was still there, but the fear of it was gone. The strop landed again. The room no longer blurred. I could see everything clearly. My father seemed to sense the difference in me and he began to lash me harder, again and again, but the more he beat me, the less I felt. It was almost as if he was the one who was helpless.

Then he laid on the strop. The first blow inflicted more shock than pain. The second hurt more. Each blow that followed increased the pain. At first, I was aware of the walls, the toilet, the tub. Finally, I couldn’t see anything. As he beat me, he berated me, but I couldn’t understand the words. I thought about his roses, how he grew roses in the yard. I thought about his automobile in the garage. I tried not to scream. I knew that if I did scream, he might stop, but knowing this, and knowing his desire for me to scream, prevented me.

I began eating. It was terrible. I felt as if I were eating them, what they believed in, what they were. I didn’t chew any of it, I just swallowed it to get rid of it.

True love is like ghosts, which everybody talks about and few have seen.

The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

Little girl, stop waiting for someone to come and rescue you. You are your own.

Lebedeva’s eyes shone. 'Masha, listen to me. Cosmetics are an extension of the will. Why do you think all men paint themselves when they go to fight? When I paint my eyes to match my soup, it is not because I have nothing better to do than worry over trifles. It says, I belong here, and you will not deny me. When I streak my lips red as foxgloves, I say, come here, male. I am your mate, and you will not deny me. When I pinch my cheeks and dust them with mother-of-pearl, I say, Death, keep off, I am your enemy, and you will not deny me. I say these things, and the world listens, Masha. Because my magic is as strong as an arm. I am never denied.'

'Do you think I am a fool, Masha? All this time, and you speak to me as though I were a flighty pinprick of a girl. I am a magician! Did you never think, even once, that I loved lipstick and rouge for more than their colour alone? I am a student of their lore, and it is arcane and hermetic beyond the dreams of alchemists. Did you never wonder why I gave you so many pots, so many creams, so much perfume?'