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Her Body and Othe...
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by Carmen Maria Machado (Goodreads Author)
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The Righteous Min...
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Stephen Chbosky
“So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be.”
Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Nick Hornby
“Human beings are millions of things in one day.”
Nick Hornby, A Long Way Down

Nick Hornby
“We all spend so much time not saying what we want, because we know we can't have it. And because it sounds ungracious, or ungrateful, or disloyal, or childish, or banal. Or because we're so desperate to pretend that things are OK, really, that confessing to ourselves they're not looks like a bad move. Go on, say what you want. ... Whatever it is, say it to yourself. The truth will set you free. Either that or it'll get you a punch in the nose. Surviving in whatever life you're living means lying, and lying corrodes the soul, so take a break from the lies for just one minute.”
Nick Hornby, A Long Way Down

F. Scott Fitzgerald
“I hope she'll be a fool -- that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Sylvia Plath
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

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