We have never been permitted to cry because it makes our energies suffocating. Crying lays you low and vulnerable, racks your body. If water is the cure for what ails us, the water that comes from our own faces and hearts is the wrong sort. It has absorbed our pain and is dangerous to let lose. Pathological despair was King’s way of describing an emergency that needed cloth, confinement, our heads held underwater. (p. 67)
‘Are you crying?’ he asks, without opening his eyes.‘No,’ I say. ‘I have a headache.’ I lie down so that the water won’t course down my face. […]‘Don’t cry,’ he says, finally looking at me properly. ‘I hate it when women cry. It’s manipulative.’ He gets to his feet. ‘Go inside and take an aspirin,’ he says, puling me up too.‘You want to watch that,’ he adds. ‘You want to take care of yourself better.’ (p. 148)
Be angry, I wanted to tell Lia. […] Don’t be grateful! Be angry! Be tough! (p.235)
Sometimes my housemates, hardier girls, brought men back to their rooms, and I couldn’t understand why they did it, whether it was recklessness or inoculation or both. (p. 79)
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