Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?
« The word intimacy comes from the Latin root intimum, which means your interiority, your innermost core. Unless you have something there, you can’t be intimate with anybody. You cannot allow intimum, intimacy, because they will see the hole, the wound, and the pus oozing out of it. They will see that you don’t know who you are […], that you have not even heard your own song, that your life is a chaos, not a cosmos. Hence the fear of intimacy. The reason is thinking there is nothing to share. Who wants to show one’s inner poverty? One should be capable of being alone, utterly alone, and yet tremendously blissful. Then you can love. Then your love is no longer a need but a sharing. »
— Osho, Intimacy: Trusting Oneself and the Other
my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing
for blood,but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw,
and this is the map of my heart, the landscape
after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is
a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me
tight, it’s getting cold. We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it. The lawn drowns, the sky on fire,
the gold light falling backwards through the glass
of every room. I’ll give you my heart to make a place
for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger.
Richard Siken, “Snow and Dirty Rain”
“Home is in my hair, my lips, my arms, my thighs, my feet and my hands. I am my own home. And when I wake up crying in the morning, thinking of how lonely I am, I pinch my skin, tug at my hair, remind myself that I am alive. Remind myself to step outside and greet the morning. Remind myself that it’s all about forward motion. It’s all about change. It’s all about that elusive state. Freedom.”
— Diriye Osman, Fairytales for Lost Children
He saw the lightning in the east and longed for the east, but if it had flashed in the west he would have longed for the west.
My desire is for the lightning and its gleam, not for the places and the earth.
“There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic.”
— Diane Setterfield