Sal

“Читання — це вада, яка може стати на місце всіх інших вад, або іноді замість них інтенсивно сприяти всім жити, це — відхилення, манія, що поглинає. Ні, наркотиків я не вживаю, вживаю книжки, безсумнівно, я маю свої вподобання, багато книжок залишають мене байдужою, деякі з них я вживаю лиш зранку, інші — тільки вночі, є книжки, від яких відірватись не можу, з ними ходжу по квартирі, переношу з кімнати до кухні, читаю навстоячки в коридорі, не користуюсь закладками, не ворушу при читанні вустами, читати навчилась я дуже рано і дуже добре..”
― Ingeborg Bachmann, Malina

“We lay on our bed in the rented room and I fed you plums the colour of bruises. Nature is fecund but fickle. One year she leaves you to starve, the next year she kills you with love. That year the branches were torn beneath the weight, this year they sing in the wind. There are no ripe plums in August.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body

“How should I receive her when she appeared? I would say nothing, I would walk toward her and stare into the depths of her eyes at her cruel blonde soul. She would be overcome by my silence and my calm. Then, coldly, resolutely, I would strangle her. That would be ugly, brutal, savage, but it would be a brief nightmare, and in the joy of the mystic murder, I would stretch her out on the divan covered in the green of a mossy bank. I would spread about her head the halo of her pale hair. I would fill her hands with white lilies and scatter her body with her favorite roses-white with a tinge of green. She would slumber, only a bit more pale than in her regular sleep. And I would love her in that superhuman hour more than any other being had ever dared to love. That would be madness with its exaltations and its terrors and its aftermath. I would watch beside her until dawn. I would see the taper-flames waver. The deep blue of midnight would fill the corners with shadow. Vally's lids would grow strangely blue. And I would shout aloud as a man does when drunk: I have killed her! Then she would remain forever my virgin Priestess. She would be the pure whiteness of my dreams, the Inaccessible, the Untarnishable. I would have saved her in saving myself.”
― Renée Vivien, A Woman Appeared to Me

“When depression visits
I shall hang myself
to the sound of my lover's breathing”
― Sarah Kane, 4.48 Psychosis