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The Art of Loving
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Honeybees and Dis...
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Rémy Ngamije
“That's the one thing the missionaries got right when they landed. They managed to stamp automatic forgiveness into every black man's soul. Forgive and forget. That was the game plan. First give them Jesus and the Sacred Power of Forgiveness and put the Fear of Eternal Damnation in them. Then take the land. And make sure the forgiveness gene is passed down from poor father to pauper son, dispossessed mother to despondent daughter, so in three hundred years' time their children can't come back to claim their shit.”
Rémy Ngamije, Only Stars Know the Meaning of Space: A Literary Mixtape

“Tony and I were fundamentally different. What I mean is we sat in the world differently - he settling into the back cushions, noting with objective precision the grime or glamour of his surroundings, while I hovered, nervous, at the edge of my seat. Often, I felt - more often now - I couldn't even make it to the edge. Instead I flitted from one space to another, calculating whether I would fit, considering the cosmic feeling of unwelcome that emanated from wherever I chose to go.”
Meng Jin, Self-Portrait with Ghost: Short Stories

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
“The point of art is to look at our world and be moved by it, and then to engage in a series of attempts at clearly seeing that world, interpreting it, questioning it. In all these forms of engagement, a kind of purity of purpose must prevail. It cannot be a gimmick, it must at some level be true. Only then can we reach reflection, illumination, and finally, hopefully, epiphany.”
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Dream Count

Sabahattin Ali
“...'I, for example, have several dear friends... Now am I in love with all of these people?'
I continued to press my point: 'Yes,' I said. 'You are a little in love with all those people you care for.”
Sabahattin Ali, Madonna in a Fur Coat

“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 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;bell jar, The Bell Jar

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