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Against Purity: L...
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"So many good quotes (should be public) but still a lot of needlessly dense and theoretical passages." Jul 09, 2026 08:57PM

 
A Man Without a C...
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The Salt Eaters
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Book cover for How We Show Up: Reclaiming Family, Friendship, and Community
This is a process of decolonization. Whether you are the descendants of colonizers or the colonized—or, like me, both—all of our peoples have experienced the loss of something essential to our liberated well-being. Whether that was taken ...more
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Virginia Woolf
“As we are a doomed race, chained to a sinking ship, as the whole thing is a bad joke, let us, at any rate, do our part; mitigate the suffering of our fellow-prisoners; decorate the dungeon with flowers and air-cushions; be as decent as we possibly can.”
Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

Virginia Woolf
“Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or what follows after. Thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of fourteen on a line in a gale of wind.”
Virginia Woolf, Orlando

Virginia Woolf
“One cannot bring children into a world like this. One cannot perpetuate suffering, or increase the breed of these lustful animals, who have no lasting emotions, but only whims and vanities, eddying them now this way, now that.”
Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

Virginia Woolf
“Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?”
Virginia Woolf, Orlando
tags: death

Virginia Woolf
“There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.”
Virginia Woolf, The Years

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