˚ ౨ৎ⋆｡˚ ⋆ دانه

“I hate to hear you talk about all women as if they were fine ladies instead of rational creatures. None of us want to be in calm waters all our lives.”
― Jane Austen, Persuasion

“في كل مرة أقول فيها " أحبك"، فإن الكلمة تخرج و كأنها جديدة، أعمق، و أغنى و كأنها كعكة خوخ مع فارق بسيط في الذوق و الملمس. بسبب كل هذا أتساءل، من ناحية المكان و الزمان، كم من الوقت المستمر و الفاصل احتاجه حتى أتمكن من الجلوس في نفس الغرفة معك و القراءة لساعات دون قول كلمة أو مقاطعة التحدث أو المناقشة أو مشاركة شيء معك، أن أقرأ دون ان يتراقص صوتي الداخلي مكرراً:"انت هنا… انت هنا..هنا!”
― Sylvia Plath, رسائل سيلفيا بلاث 1940 - 1963

“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

“O, that this too too solid flesh would melt
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two:
So excellent a king; that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on: and yet, within a month--
Let me not think on't--Frailty, thy name is woman!--
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she follow'd my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears:--why she, even she--
O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourn'd longer--married with my uncle,
My father's brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules: within a month:
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,
She married. O, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not nor it cannot come to good:
But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue.”
― William Shakespeare, Hamlet