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A Vergonha
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by Annie Ernaux (Goodreads Author)
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Calibã e a Bruxa:...
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  (page 165 of 464)
Oct 14, 2024 11:54AM

 
Book cover for A Room of One’s Own
Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.
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Simone de Beauvoir
“no exato momento, num outro jardim, completamente diferente, exatamente igual, alguém pronuncia essas palavras e o mesmo sorriso repousa em outro rosto”
Simone de Beauvoir, Las bellas imágenes

Frank Zappa
“So many books, so little time.”
Frank Zappa

Sylvia Plath
“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

Edgar Allan Poe
“tinha mania de chamar de "esquisito" tudo o que estava além da própria compreensão, vivendo assim cercado por uma verdadeira legião de "esquisitices”
Edgar Allan Poe, Edgar Allan Poe: Medo Clássico

Sylvia Plath
“I thought it sounded just like the sort of drug a man would invent. Here was a woman in terrible pain, obviously feeling every bit of it or she wouldn’t groan like that, and she would go straight home and start another baby, because the drug would make her forget how bad the pain had been, when all the time, in some secret part of her, that long, blind, doorless and windowless corridor of pain was waiting to open up and shut her in again.”
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

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