Nothing made sense to me anymore. I knew I was young, I knew I was small. But I was worried that I might already be ruined.
And I weakly, waste away,
Though the blood beats more strongly.
Anna Akhmatova, My Imagination, Obediently
people so tired
either by love or no love.
There is a terrible emptiness in me, an indifference that hurts.
Albert Camus, The First Man
She was waiting, but she didn’t know for what. She was aware only of her solitude, and of the penetrating cold, and of a greater weight in the region of her heart.
Albert Camus, ‘The Adulterous Woman’ from Exile And The Kingdom
In the world through which I travel I am endlessly creating myself.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others. And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.
Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
Every person before me is a person, but they’re a world before that. We are all time bombs and angels, poisons and antidotes, question marks and commas, and it suits me just fine.
Christopher Krovatin, Venomous
It is within you that the ghosts acquire voices.
Italo Calvino, Under the Jaguar Sun
Tokenistic, objectifying, voyeuristic inclusion is at least as disempowering as complete exclusion.
Kimberlé Crenshaw in Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence Against Women of Color