jahnavi

“She told them that the only grace they could have was the grace they could imagine. That if they could not see it, they would not have it.

"Here," she said, "in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard.
Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don’t love your eyes; they'd just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face 'cause they don't love that either. You got to love it, you! And no, they ain't in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give you leavins instead. No, they don't love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I'm talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I'm telling you. And O my people, out yonder, hear me, they do not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck; put a hand on it, grace it, stroke it and hold it up. And all your inside parts that they'd just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them. The dark, dark liver--love it, love it, and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyes or feet.More than lungs that have yet to draw free air. More than your life holding womb and your life-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize." Saying no more, she stood up then and danced with her twisted hip the rest of what her heart had to say while the others opened heir mouths and gave her the music.”
― Toni Morrison, Beloved

“Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.

--The Sensible Thing”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Short Stories

“My Dear,
Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains. For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it's much better to be killed by a lover.
-Falsely yours”
― Charles Bukowski

“जिंदगी में कुछ नोना–नमकीन और कुछ मिश्री–मीठा । इतना ही । पछतावा कैसा ! सबकी जन्मपत्री चितकबरी ही हुआ करती है । हर्ष–शोक, लाभ–हानि, ऊँच–नीच–सब बारी–बारी अपनी झलक दिखाते हैं । ऐसा किसी के हाथ में नहीं कि फुलझड़ियाँ ही छूटती रहें । सब गर्म–सर्द समय में घुल–मिल जाते हैं । इसकी नाकाबंदी ऊपरवाले के सिवाय कोई दूसरा नहीं कर सकता । पर एक बात समझने की है । जो पोत बनाएँगे, वही सागर में उतरेंगे । श्रम करेंगे तो फल पाएँगे । यही उत्स है । जीनेवालों की प्राप्ति ।”
― कृष्णा सोबती [Krishna Sobti], ऐ लड़की