Uvrón

“People have their fictions and believe what they have mutually agreed upon. But you know, it's not necessarily true that things are only like this or that... I urge you to create your own fiction, one that says it's you who's perfect, for instance.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, The Empusium

“I’m not trying to remember anything. I’m
hoping that what remains forgotten is still affecting what I think.”
― M. John Harrison, Wish I Was Here

“When I was a young man and very well thought of,
I couldn't ask aught that the ladies denied.
I nibbled their hearts like a handful of raisins,
And I never spoke love but I knew that I lied.

But I said to myself, 'Ah, they none of them know
The secret I shelter and savor and save
I wait for the one who will see through my seeming,
And I'll know when I love by the way I behave.'

The years drifted over like clouds in the heavens;
The ladies went by me like snow on the wind.
I charmed and I cheated, deceived and dissembled,
And I sinned, and I sinned, and I sinned, and I sinned.

But I said to myself, 'Ah, they none of them see
There's part of me pure as the whisk of a wave.
My lady is late but she'll find I've been faithful,
And I'll know when I love by the way I behave.'

At last came a lady both knowing and tender,
Saying, 'you're not at all what they take you to be.'
I betrayed her before she had quite finished speaking,
And she swallowed cold poison and jumped in the sea.

And I say to myself when there's time for a word,
As I gracefully grow more debauched and depraved,
'Ah, love may be strong, but a habit is stronger
And I knew when I loved by the way I behaved.”
― Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn

“There were days when she was very happy without knowing why. She was happy to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be one with the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some perfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned to dream in. And she found it good to dream and to be alone and unmolested.

There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why—when it did not seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like worms struggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation.”
― Kate Chopin, The Awakening