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Crime and Punishment
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Nov 30, 2025 04:15AM

 
Lettere a Milena
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Jan 03, 2026 06:46AM

 
Beren and Lúthien
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Dolly Alderton
“Nearly everything I know about love, I’ve learnt in my long-term friendships with women. Particularly the ones I have lived with at one point or another.”
Dolly Alderton, Everything I Know About Love

Dolly Alderton
“It takes a village to mend a broken heart.”
Dolly Alderton, Everything I Know About Love

“Uno sconosciuto" replicò Joseph "è soltanto un membro della famiglia che non hai ancora incontrato.”
Albom Mitch

Dolly Alderton
“I was completely alone, but I had never felt safer. It wasn’t the bricks around me that I’d somehow managed to rent or the roof over my head that I was most grateful for. It was the home I now carried on my back like a snail. The sense that I was finally in responsible and loving hands.
Love was there in my empty bed. It was piled up in the records Lauren bought me when we were teenagers. It was in the smudged recipe cards from my mum in between the pages of cookbooks in my kitchen cabin. Love was in the bottle of gin tied with a ribbon that India had packed me off with; in the smeary photo-strips with curled corners that would end up stuck to my fridge. It was in the note that lay on the pillow next to me, the one I would fold up and keep in the shoebox of all the other notes she had written before.
I woke up safe in my one-woman boat. I was gliding into a new horizon; floating in a sea of love.
There it was. Who knew? It had been there all along.”
Dolly Alderton, Everything I Know About Love

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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