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beloved memoir <3

...having known it, the allure is something different. It is the promise of something closer, something seperate, something the mystics knew. An existence. "I, Catherine." "I, Angela." "I, Clare." There is nothing of mine, St. Angela wrote, and yet in the "I," a being is created, a self of one's imagining. And wasn't that worth something?

I'd felt his hard, physical gaze cut into me, showing me my unfamiliar self, that other part of me, over there, on the other side of the world. I wanted more of it. I wanted to live through his ink, to bathe in it. I wanted to be the only one he saw.

"Our beaches are still waiting for the end of a war that's been going on for so long that people have stopped believing it's real. They build hotels, put up neon signs, but it's all fake, we're on a knife-edge, it could all give way any moment. We're living in limbo. In a winter that never ends."

this book would feel a lot more powerful if it actually recognised God (the same God of the church & kings) as a saviour of women not some pagan goddesses...

"it's a love story, Tommy," he told me. "it's a love story between [...] every member of their family." thesis of this book !

can i give a book 5 stars when i am only 1/4 of the way in

can i give a book 5 stars when i am 1/4 of the way in

dont look at me

finally understanding why excessive use of commas is bad

I was his butterfly