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Then all night you rummaged my flesh for some body else.
If you can’t make people care about the community they live in, how can you get them to care about anything?”
“We think our stories are personal,” he told me, “but we’re all products of our time.”
“When you write, you have to take people to the closet. Not to the living room or the kitchen, not even to your bedroom. No, you take them straight to the goddamn closet, the place you keep your most secret, unmentionable things.”
Men admire each other when they are at their best, but women enjoy meeting each other in pits of despair.
begin to unravel the many threads that bound them.
I hadn’t known what I wanted then because I’d never wanted anything as much as I wanted Connelly.
I didn’t know what to call what he had done to me. I only knew how it had made me feel.
I would always be the one unpacking that night, wondering what I might have said or done differently. Even then, I could taste the shame that would follow me for a lifetime.
So could I, how easy it would be to slip into a life he created for me instead of having to make one of my own.
“I don’t know what Russian novel you think you’re in, but you’re just fucking a professor. And not even a tenured one.”
What made a girl a woman? Through what mechanism did we pass from one state to another?

