Angela L.

“God is the name of the blanket we throw over mystery to give it shape.”
― Barry Taylor

“... since I was still, and must for long remain, in that period of life when one has not yet separated the fact of this sensual pleasure from the various women in whose company one has tasted it, when one has not reduced it to a general idea which makes one regard them thenceforward as the variable instruments of a pleasure that is always the same. Indeed, that pleasure does not exist, isolated and formulated in the consciousness, as the ultimate object with which one seeks a woman's company, or as the cause of the uneasiness which, in anticipation, one then feels. Hardly even does one think of oneself, but only how to escape from oneself.”
― Marcel Proust, Swann’s Way

“How strange to feel the line that is spun from us lengthening its fine filament across the misty spaces of the intervining world. He is gone. I stand here, holding his poem.”
― Virginia Woolf, The Waves

“If he had been a monster, I wouldn’t have been interested in writing about him. The sorts of crimes that interest me are not the ones committed by psychopaths. I’m interested in apparently ordinary people who, under life’s unbearable pressure, burst through the very fine membrane that separates our daylight selves from the secret darkness that lives in every one of us.”
― Helen Garner, Everywhere I Look