Conversations with Friends

by Sally Rooney

You must love him, she told me when I was sixteen. He’s your father. Who says I have to love him? I said. Well, I want to believe you’re the kind of person who loves her own parents. Believe what you want. I believe I raised you to be kind to others, she said. That’s what I believe. Was I kind to others? It was hard to nail down an answer. I worried that if I did turn out to have a personality, it would be one of the unkind ones. Did I only worry about this question because as a woman I felt required to put the needs of others before my own? Was “kindness” just another term for submission in the face of conflict? These were the kind of things I wrote about in my diary as a teenager: as a feminist I have the right not to love anyone.

Bobbi: i don’t think “unemotional” is a quality someone can have Bobbi: that’s like claiming not to have thoughts

I know you don’t like to seem upset by things. But it’s not a sign of weakness to have feelings.

Gradually the waiting began to feel less like waiting and more like this was simply what life was: the distracting tasks undertaken while the thing you are waiting for continues not to happen.

You live through certain things before you understand them. You can’t always take the analytical position.