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Mrs Keppel and He...
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Into the Woods: H...
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Anna Karenina
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Vita Sackville-West
“This book is yours, my witch. Read it and find your tormented soul, changed and free.”
Vita Sackville-West, Challenge
tags: love, witch

Patricia Highsmith
“it was Carol she loved and would always love...it was still Carol and no one else. It would be Carol, in a thousand cities, a thousand houses, in foreign lands where they would go together, in heaven and in hell.”
Patricia Highsmith, The Price of Salt
tags: love

Virginia Woolf
“She was like a fox, or an olive tree; like the waves of the sea when you look down upon them from a height; like an emerald; like the sun on a green hill which is yet clouded--like nothing he had seen or known in England. Ransack the language as he might, words failed him. He wanted another landscape, and another tongue. English was too frank, too candid, too honeyed a speech for Sasha. For in all she said, however open she seemed and voluptuous, there was something hidden; in all she did, however daring, there was something concealed. So the green flame seems hidden in the emerald, or the sun prisoned in a hill. The clearness was only outward; within was a wandering flame. It came; it went; she never shone with the steady beam of an Englishwoman--here, however, remembering the
Lady Margaret and her petticoats, Orlando ran wild in his transports and swept her over the ice, faster, faster, vowing that he would chase the flame, dive for the gem, and so on and so on, the words coming on the pants of his breath with the passion of a poet whose poetry is half pressed out of him by pain.”
Virginia Woolf, Orlando

Vita Sackville-West
“Remembrance clamoured in him: 'She was wild and free,
Magnificent in giving; she was blind
To gain or loss, and loving, loved but me - but me!”
Vita Sackville-West
tags: love

Jeanette Winterson
“I wanted her bones, her blood, her tissues, the sinews that bound her together. I would have held her to me though time had stripped away the tones and textures of her skin. I could have held her for a thousand years until the skeleton itself rubbed away to dust. What are you that makes me feel thus? Who are you for whom time has no meaning?
In the heat of her hands I thought, this is the campfire that mocks the sun. This place will warm me, feed me and care for me. I will hold on to this pulse against other rhythms. The world will come and go in the tide of a day but here is her hand with my future in its palm.”
Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body

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