Victoria

“It was her first book, an indigo cover with a silver moonflower, an art nouveau flower, I traced my finger along the silver line like smoke, whiplash curves. ... I touched the pages her hands touched, I pressed them to my lips, the soft thick old paper, yellow now, fragile as skin. I stuck my nose between the bindings and smelled all the readings she had given, the smell of unfiltered cigarettes and the espresso machine, beaches and incense and whispered words in the night. I could hear her voice rising from the pages. The cover curled outward like sails.”
― Janet Fitch, White Oleander

“and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.”
― James Joyce, Dubliners

“Life must not be a novel that is given to us, but one that is made by us. ”
― Novalis, Philosophical Writings

“Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.”
― Novalis