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The Secret History
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Ottessa Moshfegh
“Reva was like the pills I took. They turned everything, even hatred, even love, into fluff I could bat away. And that was exactly what I wanted—my emotions passing like headlights that shine softly through a window, sweep past me, illuminate something vaguely familiar, then fade and leave me in the dark again.”
Ottessa Moshfegh, My Year of Rest and Relaxation

Tove Jansson
“Small animals are a great problem. I wish God had never created small animals, or else that He had made them so they could talk, or else that He'd given them better faces. Space. Take moths. They fly at the lamp and burn themsleves, and then they fly right back again. It can't be instinct, because it isn't the way it works. They just don't understand, so they go right on doing it. Then they lie on their backs and all their legs quiver, and then they're dead. Did you get all that? Does it sound good?"
"Very good," Grandmother said.
Sophia stood up and shouted, "Say this: say I hate everything that dies slow! Say I hate everything that won't let you help! Did you write that?”
Tove Jansson, The Summer Book

Sayaka Murata
“Children’s lives never belong to them. The grown-ups own us. If your mom abandons you, you won’t be able to eat, and you can’t go anywhere without help from a grown-up. It’s the same for all children.” He reached out a hand to cut a flower from the bed. “That’s why we have to try hard to survive until we’ve grown up ourselves.”
Sayaka Murata, Earthlings

Tara Westover
“But sometimes I think we choose our illnesses, because they benefit us in some way.”
Tara Westover, Educated

Elena Ferrante
“At that point she took her hands away from her face, sliding them slowly over her skin: a painful movement that was intended to wipe away the tears and at the same time deliberately show me her grief, without embarrassment but, rather, as a medal... At my house, it was a duty to hide your feelings, not to seem impolite. Whereas she, after seventeen years-- what seemed an eternity to me-- was still in despair, wept in front of the tomb, spoke to the marble, addressed bones she couldn't even see, a man who no longer existed.”
Elena Ferrante, The Lying Life of Adults

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