Mariel > Mariel's Quotes

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  • #1
    Eleanor Roosevelt
    “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”
    Eleanor Roosevelt, This is My Story

  • #2
    Sylvia Plath
    “Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

  • #3
    Sylvia Plath
    “I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #4
    Sylvia Plath
    “I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

  • #5
    Sylvia Plath
    “How we need another soul to cling to.”
    Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

  • #6
    Sylvia Plath
    “Eternity bores me,
    I never wanted it.

    From the poem "Years", 16 November 1962”
    Sylvia Plath, The Collected Poems

  • #7
    Sylvia Plath
    “I am too pure for you or anyone.

    From the poem "Fever 103°", 20 October 1962”
    Sylvia Plath, The Collected Poems

  • #8
    Sylvia Plath
    “I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.”
    Sylvia Plath

  • #9
    Michael Cunningham
    “There is just this for consolation: an hour here or there, when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we've ever imagined , though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning, we hope, more than anything, for more. Heaven only knows why we love it so.”
    Michael Cunningham, The Hours

  • #10
    Michael Cunningham
    “Dear Leonard. To look life in the face. Always to look life in the face and to know it for what it is. At last to know it. To love it for what it is, and then, to put it away. Leonard. Always the years between us. Always the years. Always the love. Always the hours.”
    Michael Cunningham, The Hours

  • #11
    Michael Cunningham
    “It had seemed like the beginning of happiness, and Clarissa is still sometimes shocked, more than thirty years later to realize that it was happiness; that the entire experience lay in a kiss and a walk. The anticipation of dinner and a book. The dinner is by now forgotten; Lessing has been long overshadowed by other writers. What lives undimmed in Clarissa's mind more than three decades later is a kiss at dusk on a patch of dead grass, and a walk around a pond as mosquitoes droned in the darkening air. There is still that singular perfection, and its perfect in part because it seemed, at the time, so clearly to promise more. Now she knows: That was the moment, right then. There has been no other.”
    Michael Cunningham

  • #12
    Michael Ondaatje
    “She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.”
    Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

  • #13
    Michael Ondaatje
    “Her life with others no longer interests him. He wants only her stalking beauty, her theatre of expressions. He wants the minute secret reflection between them, the depth of field minimal, their foreignness intimate like two pages of a closed book.”
    Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

  • #14
    Michael Ondaatje
    “I believe this. When we meet those we fall in love with, there is an aspect of our spirit that is historian, a bit of a pedant who reminisces or remembers a meeting when the other has passed by innocently…but all parts of the body must be ready for the other, all atoms must jump in one direction for desire to occur.”
    Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient
    tags: love

  • #15
    Michael Ondaatje
    “She is a woman of honour and smartness whose wild leaves out luck, always taking risks, and there is something in her brow now, that only she can recognize in a mirror. Ideal and idealistic in that shiny dark hair! People fall in love with her. She is a woman I don’t know well enough to hold in my wing, if writers have wings, to harbour for the rest of my life.”
    Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

  • #16
    Michael Ondaatje
    “If I were a cinnamon peeler
    I would ride your bed
    and leave the yellow bark dust
    on your pillow.

    Your breasts and shoulders would reek
    you could never walk through markets
    without the profession of my fingers
    floating over you. The blind would
    stumble certain of whom they approached
    though you might bathe
    under rain gutters, monsoon.

    Here on the upper thigh
    at this smooth pasture
    neighbor to your hair
    or the crease
    that cuts your back. This ankle.
    You will be known among strangers
    as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

    I could hardly glance at you
    before marriage
    never touch you
    -- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
    I buried my hands
    in saffron, disguised them
    over smoking tar,
    helped the honey gatherers...

    When we swam once
    I touched you in water
    and our bodies remained free,
    you could hold me and be blind of smell.
    You climbed the bank and said

    this is how you touch other women
    the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.

    And you searched your arms

    for the missing perfume.

    and knew
    what good is it
    to be the lime burner's daughter

    left with no trace

    as if not spoken to in an act of love

    as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.

    You touched
    your belly to my hands
    in the dry air and said
    I am the cinnamon
    peeler's wife. Smell me.”
    Michael Ondaatje, The Cinnamon Peeler: Selected Poems

  • #17
    Michael Ondaatje
    “The Time Around Scars:
    A girl whom I've not spoken to
    or shared coffee with for several years
    writes of an old scar.
    On her wrist it sleeps, smooth and white,
    the size of a leech.
    I gave it to her
    brandishing a new Italian penknife.
    Look, I said turning,
    and blood spat onto her shirt.

    My wife has scars like spread raindrops
    on knees and ankles,
    she talks of broken greenhouse panes
    and yet, apart from imagining red feet,
    (a nymph out of Chagall)
    I bring little to that scene.
    We remember the time around scars,
    they freeze irrelevant emotions
    and divide us from present friends.
    I remember this girl's face,
    the widening rise of surprise.

    And would she
    moving with lover or husband
    conceal or flaunt it,
    or keep it at her wrist
    a mysterious watch.
    And this scar I then remember
    is a medallion of no emotion.

    I would meet you now
    and I would wish this scar
    to have been given with
    all the love
    that never occurred between us. ”
    Michael Ondaatje

  • #18
    Michael Ondaatje
    “This last night we tear into each other, as if to wound, as if to find the key to everything before morning.”
    Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter

  • #19
    Michael Ondaatje
    “Everyone has to scratch on walls somewhere or they go crazy”
    Michael Ondaatje, In the Skin of a Lion

  • #20
    Michael Ondaatje
    “We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves. I wish for all this to be marked on my body when I am dead.”
    Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

  • #21
    Virginia Woolf
    “I worship you, but I loathe marriage. I hate its smugness, its safety, its compromise and the thought of you interfering with my work, hindering me; what would you answer? ”
    Virginia Woolf

  • #22
    Virginia Woolf
    “I am rooted, but I flow.”
    Virginia Woolf

  • #23
    Virginia Woolf
    “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”
    Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own

  • #24
    Virginia Woolf
    “It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.”
    Virginia Woolf, The Death of the Moth and Other Essays

  • #25
    Virginia Woolf
    “They went in and out of each other's minds without any effort.”
    Virginia Woolf

  • #26
    Virginia Woolf
    “He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise; dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink.”
    Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

  • #27
    Virginia Woolf
    “He smiled the most exquisite smile, veiled by memory, tinged by dreams.”
    Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

  • #28
    Margaret Atwood
    “In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.”
    Margaret Atwood, Bluebeard's Egg

  • #29
    Margaret Atwood
    “Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.”
    Margaret Atwood, Der blinde Mörder

  • #30
    Simone de Beauvoir
    “I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me entirely. No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself”
    Simone de Beauvoir

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