Maria

“Why should anyone raise an eyebrow because a latter-day Einstein’s wife expects her husband to put aside that lifeless theory of relativity and help her with the work that is supposed to be the essence of life itself: diaper the baby and don’t forge to rinse the soiled diaper in the toilet paper before putting it in the diaper pail, and then wax the kitchen floor.”
― Betty Friedan, The Feminine Mystique

“Hanged"
I hung myself today. Hanged? Whatever,
the point is I hanged myself today and I’m still
hanging.

I feel fine. Just bored. I keep hoping that
someone will come home and cut me down
but then I keep remembering that if I knew
someone like that I wouldn’t be up here. Bit
ironic, right? Or is that not ironic? I read
somewhere that, like, anything funny is,
in some way, ironic. But I don’t know if it's
funny or not. I don’t think my brain owns
“funny”, you know?

I feel taller. I like that.
I’ve never been away from my shadow for
this long. It had always clung to my feet,
parting momentarily for a quick dive into
the swimming pool. But never for five
hours. I like it. There’s three feet of space
between my two and the floor.

I wanted something this morning. I may be
stuck. But at least I’m three feet closer to it.”
― Bo Burnham, Egghead; or, You Can't Survive on Ideas Alone

“What about me?’ said Grantaire. ‘I’m here.’
‘You?’
‘Yes, me.’
‘You? Rally Republicans! You? In defence of principles, fire up hearts that have grown cold!’
‘Why not?’
‘Are you capable of being good for something?’
‘I have the vague ambition to be,’ said Grantaire.
‘You don’t believe in anything.’
‘I believe in you.’
‘Grantaire, will you do me a favour?’
‘Anything. Polish your boots.’
‘Well, don’t meddle in our affairs. Go and sleep off the effects of your absinthe.’
‘You’re heartless, Enjolras.’
‘As if you’d be the man to send to the Maine gate! As if you were capable of it!’
‘I’m capable of going down Rue des Grès, crossing Place St-Michel, heading off along Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, taking Rue de Vaugirard, passing the Carmelite convent, turning into Rue d’Assas, proceeding to Rue du Cherche-Midi, leaving the Military Court behind me, wending my way along Rue des Vieilles-Tuileries, striding across the boulevard, following Chaussée du Maine, walking through the toll-gate and going into Richefeu’s. I’m capable of that. My shoes are capable of that.’
‘Do you know them at all, those comrades who meet at Richefeu’s?'
‘Not very well. But we’re on friendly terms.’
‘What will you say to them?’
‘I’ll talk to them about Robespierre, of course! And about Danton. About principles.’
‘You?’
‘Yes, me. But I’m not being given the credit I deserve. When I put my mind to it, I’m terrific. I’ve read Prudhomme, I’m familiar with the Social Contract, I know by heart my constitution of the year II. “The liberty of the citizen ends where the liberty of another citizen begins.” Do you take me for a brute beast? I have in my drawer an old promissory note from the time of the Revolution. The rights of man, the sovereignty of the people, for God’s sake! I’m even a bit of an Hébertist. I can keep coming out with some wonderful things, watch in hand, for a whole six hours by the clock.’
‘Be serious,’ said Enjolras.
‘I mean it,’ replied Grantaire.

Enjolras thought for a few moments, and with the gesture of a man who had come to a decision, ‘Grantaire,’ he said gravely, ‘I agree to try you out. You’ll go to the Maine toll-gate.’

Grantaire lived in furnished lodgings very close to Café Musain. He went out, and came back five minutes later. He had gone home to put on a Robespierre-style waistcoat.
‘Red,’ he said as he came in, gazing intently at Enjolras. Then, with an energetic pat of his hand, he pressed the two scarlet lapels of the waistcoat to his chest.
And stepping close to Enjolras he said in his ear, ‘Don’t worry.’
He resolutely jammed on his hat, and off he went.”
― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

“Det er som en abstinens ikke å få se den man er forelska i. Du kjenner det, fysisk, i hele deg, hvordan du mangler noe essensielt, hvordan det som får deg til å puste, det som får føttene dine til å bevege seg, ikke fins lengre. Alt annet mister betydning. Folk sier det er vanskelig å slutte å røyke. Forsøk å slutte å være forelska når du er det. Det er umulig.”
― Tore Renberg, Mannen som elsket Yngve