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Charles Bukowski
“Do you hate people?”

“I don't hate them...I just feel better when they're not around.”
Charles Bukowski, Barfly

Elizabeth Wurtzel
“Some friends don't understand this. They don't understand how desperate I am to have someone say, I love you and I support you just the way you are because you're wonderful just the way you are. They don't understand that I can't remember anyone ever saying that to me. I am so demanding and difficult for my friends because I want to crumble and fall apart before them so that they will love me even though I am no fun, lying in bed, crying all the time, not moving. Depression is all about If you loved me you would.”
Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation

“[Two respondents] minimized the assimilationist implications of the dominant account; Russ Silver rejects the idea entirely.

'I have no interest in being accepted. I consider this system corrupt, and I don't want to be accepted by it. We're in this together. Faggots, junkies, women, blacks, Hispanics, Native Americans, Asians, don't you see it? Don't you see that our white male government doesn't care about us? When I say this it shocks coat-and-tie lesbians and gay men everywhere. Well, I'm sorry, folks; if you had AIDS you would know what I know: The government doesn't give a goddamn cent for a faggot's life.”
Vera Whisman, Queer By Choice

Pablo Neruda
“And our problems will crumble apart, the soul / blow through like a wind, and here where we live
will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table.”
Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

Sylvia Plath
“Mirror

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful-
The eye of the little god, four cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

--written 1960”
Sylvia Plath, The Collected Poems

year in books
Betty
638 books | 335 friends

Shelby ...
1,645 books | 80 friends

Erica B...
278 books | 297 friends

Bianca ...
344 books | 48 friends

Hannah ...
0 books | 100 friends

Eric Ga...
3 books | 40 friends

Jessica
172 books | 44 friends

Obed Alas
3 books | 39 friends

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