"at my age, my heart seems more than ever like a sunflower, always turning toward the light and warmth for more strength and force of character, for more beauty and wisdom. "- Anaïs Nin, in a diary entry written circa February 1920 from Linotte: The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1914–20
“I still catch myself feeling sad about things that don’t matter anymore”— Kurt Vonnegut
“I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul”— Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
"As a child, I was always searching for the meaning of it all, the big Why; and my father always said that there is no one big purpose but I had the most ripe orange today and kissed my cat goodnight, I think that’s enough purpose for a day."— Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The Flesh I Burned
"She was struggling to find, from inside the cage in which she was enclosed, a way of being all her own, that was still obscure to her"— Elena Ferrante, My Brilliant Friend
"Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful." — Mary Shelley, from Frankenstein
"Y de pronto llegará alguien que baile contigo aunque no le guste bailar y lo haga porque es contigo y nada más." - J. Borges
"What use is moonlight? I reach into it, fingers open, and my hand is silvered and blessed, and comes back to me holding nothing." —_Margaret Atwood, from “Sumacs,” in Interlunar_
Despite what you’ve read, your sadness is not beautiful. No one will see you in the bookstore, curled up with your Bukowski, and want to save you. Stop waiting for a salvation that will not come from the grey-eyed boy looking for an annotated copy of Shakespeare, for an end to your sadness in Keats. He coughed up his lungs at 25, and flowery words cannot conceal a life barely lived. Your life is fragile, just beginning, teetering on the violent edge of the world. Your sadness will bury you alive, and you are the only one who can shovel your way out with hardened hands and ragged fingernails, bleeding your despair into the unforgiving earth. Darling, you see, no heroes are coming for you. Grab your sword, and don your own armor.
“Almost every woman I have ever met has a secret belief that she is just on the edge of madness, that there is some deep, crazy part within her, that she must be on guard constantly against ‘losing control’ — of her temper, of her appetite, of her sexuality, of her feelings, of her ambition, of her secret fantasies, of her mind.” ― Elana Dykewomon,
“Many people seem to think it foolish, even superstitious, to believe that the world could still change for the better. And it is true that in winter it is sometimes so bitingly cold that one is tempted to say, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts. One morning the wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope.” — Vincent Van Gogh
“If I am worth anything later, I am worth something now. For wheat is wheat, even if people think it is a grass in the beginning.” - Vincent van Gogh
"at my age, my heart seems more than ever like a sunflower, always turning toward the light and warmth for more strength and force of character, for more beauty and wisdom. "- Anaïs Nin, in a diary entry written circa February 1920 from Linotte: The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1914–20
orld could still change for the better. And it is true that in winter it is ay, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an ensometimes so bitingly cold that one is tempted to say, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts. One morning theay, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an enay, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an en wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope.” — Vincent Van Gogh
orld could still change for the better. And it is true that in winter it is ay, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an ensometimes so bitingly cold that one is tempted to say, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts. One morning theay, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an enay, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an en wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope.” — Vincent Van Gogh