Amalie

“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
― Leo Tolstoy , Anna Karenina

“... a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

“Dit blik er en panisk panorering hen over vores naboer. Du smiler på en måde, der skal være imødekommende, men det ser uhyggeligt ud, denne pludseligt vandrette bevægelse hen over dit ansigt. Din tavshed udpeger alle vores ord, der synker sammen i en rodet bunke foran tomheden. Sætningerne omkring dig går langsomt i stå. I alt, hvad du foretager dig, findes en alvor, og du er forvirret over samtalerne. Du er ude af stand til at snakke om smutveje, og når du alligevel forsøger, bliver der underligt stille. Det lyder som en imitation, når du taler med folk, der ikke interesserer dig. Dit blik bliver langsomt tomt, du nikker og prøver, du keder dig, og nu falder du snart i søvn. Du udbyder ingen service ud over din oprigtighed, men den vil de ikke have, ikke i dag. De vil have mine glitrende spørgsmål og skinnende smalltalk. Du har ikke sans for ligegyldigheder, derfor er du undertiden sat uden for verden, placeret midt i din egen forvirring og ensomhed. Du tror, at der er en hemmelig kode, og du forsøger at bryde den. Du tror, at der findes et særligt sprog, du ikke kan tale, som alle vi andre taler, men tro mig, min elskede, det er kun, fordi du ikke kan forestille dig, hvor ligegyldige ting mennesker siger til hinanden.”
― Stine Pilgaard, Lejlighedssange

“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 another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, 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, The Bell Jar