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“Right now, I feel sane. I know that deep down, I don't really want to die. I like looking outside at the clouds touching the trees. I like the crisp air in my lungs. I am content being here. But tonight, that could change. Tomorrow, it could change. There's no telling what will trigger me. What will make me throw in the towel? I know I'm sick. But in those dark moments... I can't seem to think rationally. Not sane.”
― The Fabric of Our Souls
― The Fabric of Our Souls
“–Oh dear, what's happened to your arm?
–I cut it.
–That's a very immature, attention seeking thing to do. Did it give
you relief?
–No.”
― 4.48 Psychosis
–I cut it.
–That's a very immature, attention seeking thing to do. Did it give
you relief?
–No.”
― 4.48 Psychosis
“Okay, let's do it, let's do the drugs, let's do the chemical lobotomy, let's shut down the higher functions of my brain and perhaps I'll be a bit more fucking capable of living.”
― 4.48 Psychosis
― 4.48 Psychosis
“I am sitting next to a middle-aged Midwestern blonde from Shakopee, Minnesota. She is unremarkable; from the outside she looks less unkempt than some, a veneer of solidity that makes me wonder what she's doing here. Then she tells her story. Her thirty-year-old daughter, her best friend as she described her, had planned a big fiftieth birthday party for her. She had set up catering, had had a cake delivered to her mom's house. A few hours before the party, she had been with her mom setting up tables and making a playlist, and then left to go to her apartment to change clothes. She said to her mother what she said every time they parted, "I love loving you," and walked out the door. She never showed up for the party. She had gone home and hanged herself. This mother, that veneer I had misrecognized, was a husk, all that was left of a body destroyed by the unknown becoming known. "What had I missed?" she asked.
What was lurking inside the body of her daughter that day? What was underneath the party planning and the love of loving her mother? What could that young woman not bear to know, not bear to feel?”
― Becoming a Man: The Story of a Transition
What was lurking inside the body of her daughter that day? What was underneath the party planning and the love of loving her mother? What could that young woman not bear to know, not bear to feel?”
― Becoming a Man: The Story of a Transition
“Dying / Is an art, like everything else," wrote Plath, whose lifelong flirtation with death went too far one fateful February morning. And art is nothing if not subjective. In the same vein, when I think of Virginia Woolf, it is not merely as a helpless participant in the morbid fascination that has sprung up around these two writers--but of the windows of time of their deaths. The time it took Woolf to fill her pockets with rocks. The selection of those rocks. When does a suicide begin? When do we start counting? At the riverbank or in the river? In the kitchen the night before or the next morning? Rilke warned the "we must learn to die: That is all of life. To prepare gradually the masterpiece of a proud and supreme death, of a death where chance plays no part, of a well-made, beatific, and enthusiastic death of the kind the saints knew to shape."
That's nice. But it's hard to throw something like that together at the last minute.
What gruesome work suicide makes of grief! Sometimes I conflate blame and action, sometimes I separate them as if in a moral centrifuge, sometimes I think it doesn't matter either way.”
― Grief Is for People
That's nice. But it's hard to throw something like that together at the last minute.
What gruesome work suicide makes of grief! Sometimes I conflate blame and action, sometimes I separate them as if in a moral centrifuge, sometimes I think it doesn't matter either way.”
― Grief Is for People
Sylvia Flora’s 2024 Year in Books
Take a look at Sylvia Flora’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
756 books
|
47 friends
370 books
|
41 friends
552 books
|
242 friends
505 books
|
227 friends
187 books
|
41 friends
223 books
|
151 friends
1,613 books
|
99 friends
198 books
|
6 friends
More friends…
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