It’s enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.
—Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude (via penamerican)
I don’t really believe in Writer’s Block. There’s no need for a special magical term for something. That’s writers being typically self-glorifying even-in-their-self-hatred fuckheads, trying to separate what they do from the rest of existence. Distrust writers who think there’s something other about what they do. Magical, yes. But magic is work, magic isn’t other, magic is life and do not bullshit people even when telling them attractive lies.
—I was writing the essay for Uber 12, and this paragraph pops out, and I think it’s worth putting up here, outside of context. (via kierongillen)
Psychiatry is just this year’s candy-pink stove. It’s just more happiness.
—Roger Sterling, “Mad Men,” Season 1. (via wheniwasnotcruel)
She hardly ever thought of him. He had worn a place for himself in some corner of her heart, as a sea shell, always boring against the rock, might do. The making of the place had been her pain. But now the shell was safely in the rock. It was lodged, and ground no longer.
—T.H. White, The Once and Future King
You take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic.
—Frida Kahlo, 1946.
You want women but you are never interested in the people you want, so you learn nothing. You’ve had love affairs but somehow you’ve stayed innocent, no not innocent, you are fundamentally vicious, but somehow immature.
—Iris Murdoch, The Sea, the Sea
A woman had to choose her own particular unhappiness carefully. That was the only happiness in life: to choose the best unhappiness. An unwise move, good God, and you could squander everything.
—Lorrie Moore, Bark