Annabel Lyon > Quotes

“You who understand what a human mind can be, how can you bear it? I don't have the hundredth part of your mind and there are days when I think I'll go mad. I can feel it. Or hear it. It's more like hearing something creeping along the walls, just behind my head, getting closer and closer. A big insect, maybe a scorpion. A dry skittering, that's what madness sounds like to me.”
― Annabel Lyon, The Golden Mean

“LoVe!!IS liKe A dEep hOle....If U fElL iN thEres nO WaYoUt!!!!!!<3”
― Annabel Lyon

“Soon, I'll be alone in a quiet room where, for the rest of my life, I can float farther and farther out into the world; while my student, charging off the end of every map, falls deeper and deeper into the well of himself. 'Never be afraid to enter an argument you can't immediately see yourself out of.' Can anyone tell me what a tragedy is?”
― Annabel Lyon, The Golden Mean

“Loneliness sends you into your body instead of your brain.”
― Annabel Lyon, Consent

“Remote and oblivious and lost in contemplation.”
― Annabel Lyon, The Sweet Girl

“That was life, wasn't it? It didn't seem like you were falling.”
― Annabel Lyon, Consent

“Sandalwood - She recognized sandalwood. That was their mother's jewelry box, that smell. They used to take turns pushing their face into it and breathing deep. Cinnamon, and something else: floral, but not sweet. Darkly intoxicating, what black roses would smell like.”
― Annabel Lyon, Consent

“---kissing is good for the skin.”
― Annabel Lyon, The Sweet Girl

“The greatest virtue consists in flourishing to the greatest of our capacities.”
― Annabel Lyon, The Sweet Girl

“I was her punishment, certainly, she thinks, taking the empty suitcase out from under the bed. As she was mine. But remind me again of our crime?”
― Annabel Lyon, Consent

“We take so much into us when we lose someone we love,” he said. “We must hold what is left of them. We make choices they would have made, feel what they would have felt. This is the piece of ourselves we lose, you see, because we must make room for them. Death is a parasite, of sorts.”
― Annabel Lyon, Consent