Sal

“We lay on our bed in the rented room and I fed you plums the colour of bruises. Nature is fecund but fickle. One year she leaves you to starve, the next year she kills you with love. That year the branches were torn beneath the weight, this year they sing in the wind. There are no ripe plums in August.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body

“When depression visits
I shall hang myself
to the sound of my lover's breathing”
― Sarah Kane, 4.48 Psychosis

“Читання — це вада, яка може стати на місце всіх інших вад, або іноді замість них інтенсивно сприяти всім жити, це — відхилення, манія, що поглинає. Ні, наркотиків я не вживаю, вживаю книжки, безсумнівно, я маю свої вподобання, багато книжок залишають мене байдужою, деякі з них я вживаю лиш зранку, інші — тільки вночі, є книжки, від яких відірватись не можу, з ними ходжу по квартирі, переношу з кімнати до кухні, читаю навстоячки в коридорі, не користуюсь закладками, не ворушу при читанні вустами, читати навчилась я дуже рано і дуже добре..”
― Ingeborg Bachmann, Malina

“But my spirit was seeking an ever deeper solitude, and every time I suffered contact with civilization was unbearable torture. With each word they spoke to me, the past welled up again, filling my soul with a silent anxiety that clutched at my throat; and I longed to hurt, to kill, to inflict irreparable damage. But the absurd necessity of making a living forced me to deal with people, and now, as I remember those dealings, I loathe them more than ever. Whenever I made a little money, I did anything possible to forget, and I would drink to the point of falling facedown in the street, where nobody was compassionate enough to help me back to my feet. In the eyes of the world, I was a despicable boozehound, the object of brain-dead laughter, but I considered myself more the victim than the offender - if I was a drunk, it was the world's fault.”
― Rafael Bernal, His Name was Death