There was beauty in it still, the way imperfect things can be beautiful, but it was a beauty of a dark and fading kind.
“Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. As if there can be no story unless we crawl and weep.”
― Circe
― Circe
“The way they talk about themselves—with such frankness—it feels like all people are wet clay, all the shapes that define us self-imposed. I realize this fits into the way I’ve always seen myself, which is: art, attempted, though often spoiled by the demands of another’s taste. It makes me wonder what shape I’d be if I’d never met another human being.”
― The Honeys
― The Honeys
“The thing nobody tells you about grief is that time moves on. Or my personal favorite that nobody stops telling you—time heals all wounds. As if I want time to go anywhere. I want the world to stop. For every person to quit moving around me. For the screens to quit flashing and the zombies to stop walking so slowly down the streets that they almost get hit by cars.”
― The Best of Friends
― The Best of Friends
Cass’s 2025 Year in Books
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