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“The depressed don’t write books. People who are happy write, people who travel, are in love, and talk and talk with the conviction that, one way or another, their words always go to the right place.”
― Elena Ferrante, The Story of the Lost Child

“Carmen told me he had kissed her only four times since he returned from military service, in the spring. She added, with irritation, "Maybe he's not a man."

I didn't know anything about the dark depths that men could have, none of us did, and so for any confusing manifestation we had recourse to that formula.
Some wanted us in ways that were aggressive, subordinate, heedless, attentive - but that they wanted us there was no doubt. Others had - according to equally diverse attitudes - an aloof self-possession, as if between us and them there were a wall and the work of scaling it were our job.”
― Elena Ferrante, The Story of a New Name

“How foolish to think you can tell your children about yourself before they're at least fifty. To ask to be seen by them as a person and not as a function. To say : I am your history, you begin from me, listen to me, it could be useful to you.”
― Elena Ferrante, The Lost Daughter

“She possessed intelligence and didn't put it to use but, rather, wasted it, like a great lady for whom all the riches of the world are merely a sign of vulgarity. That was the fact that must have beguiled Nino: the gratuitousness of Lila's intelligence. She stood out among so many because she, naturally, did not submit to any training, to any use, or to any purpose. All of us had submitted and that submission had -- through trials, failures, successes -- reduced us. Only Lila, nothing and no one seemed to reduce her. (p. 403)”
― Elena Ferrante, The Story of the Lost Child