"Identity failed me. We are nothing, I said, and fell."
"Come what might, she would be wild, untrammeled, free."
"To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others."
"I am not one person; I am many people; I do not altogether know who I am —"
"I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you’re everything that exists; the reality of everything."
"There is not one big cosmic meaning for all; There is only the meaning we each give to our life, an individual meaning, an individual plot, like an individual novel, a book for each person."
"It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere."
- Sylvia Plath, The Journals of Sylvia Plath
"A bouquet of clumsy words: you know that place between sleep and awake where you’re still dreaming but it’s slowly slipping? I wish we could feel like that more often. I also wish I could click my fingers three times and be transported to anywhere I like. I wish that people didn’t always say ‘just wondering’ when you both know there was a real reason behind them asking. And I wish I could get lost in the stars. Listen, there’s a hell of a good universe next door, let’s go."
"I love the rain. I love how it softens the outlines of things. The world becomes softly blurred, and I feel like I melt right into it."
- Hanamoto Hagumi, Honey and Clover
"We do not escape into philosophy, psychology, and art—we go there to restore our shattered selves into whole ones."
- Anaïs Nin, In Favor of the Sensitive Man and Other Essays
"But why do I notice everything? She thought. Why must I think? She did not want to think. She wanted to force her mind to become a blank and lie back, and accept quietly, tolerantly, whatever came."
"You are too nostalgic, you want memory to secure you, console you. The past is a bore. What matters is only oneself and what one creates from what one has learned. Imagination uses what it needs and discards the rest—where you want to erect a museum.
Don’t hoard the past, Astrid.
Don’t cherish anything.
The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge."
- Janet Fitch, White Oleander