More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
You sit at a bar and you’re gifted with that feeling of utopia peculiar to places frequented by wanderers. Hotels are like train travel, like early-morning pillow talk with a stranger. They allow you to occupy a space that’s caught in indefiniteness.
His mouth would explore the lemon and salt of my pussy; it would taste of multiple orgasms and poor judgment.
Preverbal, love is the smell of a known body, the touch of a recognized hand, the blurred face in a haze of light.
It’s not easy for a woman to kill a man.
It’s such an intimate thing, to witness another’s death.
The Hawthorne effect is real—as I was observed, my behavior changed, not always innocently.
I am the Bronze Copper of psychopaths, a big, beautiful auburn butterfly that flaps her darkling wings as she eats.
It’s not that women psychopaths don’t exist; it’s that we fake it better than men.
Feminism comes to all things, it seems, but it comes to recognizing homicidal rage the slowest.
damn
I learned that being female is as prefab, thoughtless, soulless, and abjectly capitalist as a Big Mac. It’s not important that it’s real. It’s only important that it’s tasty.
Junk food was rebellion, rebellion was femininity, femininity was junk.
You can’t be a woman without protection. Condoms fail. Pepper spray can be turned against you. Information almost never does.
Thus, protected by knowledge and the Pill, I fucked my way through college.
was positively seething with lesbians
Some men need to witness female anger to believe in that woman’s love. Some women need to get angry to experience that love.
It becomes annoying only when they start talking, as if I’d have any interest in anything that comes out of their mouths.
Cazzo carries a fine, long, winding caravan of epithetic meanings: cock, dick, prick, shit, penis, pecker, and fuck. For example, you might in exasperation exclaim, “Che cazzo stai dicendo?” Which, literally translated, means, “What the cock are you saying?”
It was the cleanest human liver ever likely to cross my path. I could hardly waste it.
To eat people is to get the taste of a Titan. It’s infinite immortalization. It makes a god out of a woman. But then, I am an excellent cook.
“Eat the rich,” they say, and in this they are not wrong.
Except, of course, that he was dead and I had eaten him.
People tend to think of Dickinson as a hermit, but she wasn’t. She was like a spider: a master manipulator who used her cloistered charm to bring people close.
I’ll never understand people choosing to eat soulless foods—monsters all, say I, the cannibal.
The unapologetically guilty woman sleeps soundly at night.
Bloodstain spatter analysis is a killer’s worst nightmare.
yassss law class type shit
It was his body, his choice.
human meat is most assuredly not kosher.
I am a whore, but I am a print whore, and I miss cracking spines to see myself splayed open in wet, glossy spreads of luscious, expansive prose. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for print media, and for me.
Our female friends, the close ones, are the mini-breaks we take from the totalitarian work it requires to keep up the performance of being female.
“Dolls,” it read, “you told me everything. I said nothing, and I never will. Love you to the end, Emma.”
The goddess of femininity is cruel to mature women, crushing our brittle bones in her silken, youthful grip.
