We should have made note of the broken branches, we should have looked up at the smoky sky, warning the witless pretensions of lovers— the greater the hope is, the greater the lie. True kindness in love means staying quite sober, weighing each link of the chain you must bear. Don’t promise her heaven—suggest half an acre; not “unto death,” but at least to next year. And don’t keep declaring, “I love you, I love you.”
“I lay flat on my back in the ambulance, feeling the summer night flash by warm and mysterious - kids on bikes, moths haunting the street lamps - and wondering if this was what it was like, if life sped up when you were about to die. Bleeding richly. Sensations fading around the edges. I kept thinking how funny, this dark ride to the underworld, the tunnel illuminated by Shell Oil, Burger King. The paramedic riding in the back wasn’t much older than I was; a kid, really, with bad skin and a downy little moustache. He had never seen a gunshot wound. He kept asking what it felt like? dull or sharp? an ache or burn? My head was spinning and naturally I could give him no kind of coherent answer but I remember thinking dimly that it was sort of like the first time I got drunk, or slept with a girl; not quite what one expected, really, but once it happened one realised it couldn’t be any other way. Neon lights: Motel 6, Dairy Queen. Colours so bright, they nearly broke my heart.”—Donna Tartt, The Secret History
“We felt the imprisonment of being a girl, the way it made your mind active and dreamy, and how you ended up knowing which colors went together. We knew that the girls were our twins, that we all existed in space like animals with identical skins, and that they knew everything about us though we couldn’t fathom them at all. We knew, finally, that the girls were really women in disguise, that they understood love and even death, and that our job was merely to create the noise that seemed to fascinate them. - Jeffrey Eugenides (The Virgin Suicides)”—My favourite book in the entire world.
“Most often love does not choose a body as its object unless an emotion, such as fear of losing it or uncertainty of finding it again, is fused with that body. Indeed, this kind of anxiety has a special affinity for bodies, adding to them a quality which surpasses beauty itself. This is one of the reasons why we see men who are indifferent to the most beautiful women passionately love others who seem to us ugly.”—Marcel Proust (via fuckyeahproust)