Meg

Meg’s Bookshelves

to-read‎ (392)
currently-reading‎ (0)
read‎ (456)
did-not-finish‎ (0)
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mystery‎ (115)
agatha-christie‎ (80)
childrens-ya‎ (58)
fantasy‎ (58)

historical-fiction‎ (54)
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romance‎ (45)
poirot‎ (41)
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nonfiction‎ (34)
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favorites‎ (25)
miss-marple‎ (16)

want-to-read-historical-fiction‎ (16)
dorothy-sayers‎ (14)
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want-to-read-fantasy‎ (9)
comics-graphic-novels‎ (8)
biography‎ (5)
history‎ (5)
josephine-tey‎ (4)

want-to-read-mystery‎ (4)
ngaio-marsh‎ (2)
literary-fiction‎ (1)
poetry‎ (1)
read-in-french‎ (1)
want-to-read-romance‎ (1)
science‎ (0)

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“Grown-ups don't look like grown-ups on the inside either. Outside, they're big and thoughtless and they always know what they're doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. Truth is, there aren't any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world.”
― Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane

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“It's like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.”
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

tags: identity, self-image, sense-of-self, stories, storytelling

5361 likes

“Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it's all a male fantasy: that you're strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you're unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”
― Margaret Atwood, The Robber Bride

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“In the old days people died and that was that; you might hope to see them in heaven, but once they were dead they were dead. It was simple, it was definite. Now … ” He shook his head angrily. “Now people die but their Soulkeeper can revive them, or take them to a heaven we know exists, without any need for faith. We have clones, we have regrown bodies—most of me is regrown; I wake up sometimes and think, Am I still me? I know you’re supposed to be your brain, your wits, your thoughts, but I don’t believe it is that simple.”
― Iain M. Banks, Look to Windward

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“He dallied a moment, soaking up the fresh, clean smell of the wood—he remembered a time when they’d taken a hunting cabin in the Loustrian Hills, just the two of them. The axe that came with the cabin was blunt; he’d sharpened it with a stone, hoping to impress her with his handiness, but then when he’d come to swing it at the first piece of wood the head had sailed off and disappeared into the trees. He could still exactly recall her laughter, and then, when he must have looked hurt, her kiss.

They had slept under furs on a platform of moss. He remembered one cold morning when the fire had gone out overnight and it was freezingly cold in the cabin and they had coupled, him straddling her, his teeth nipped gently in the fur at the nape of her neck, moving slowly over and in her, watching the smoke of her breath as it billowed in the sunlight and rolled out across the room to the window, where it froze in curving, recursive motifs; a coalescence of pattern out of chaos.”
― Iain M. Banks, Look to Windward

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