Xisca Xiscally

“Para mí, la violación posee ante todo esa particularidad: es algo obsesivo. Vuelvo a ello todo el tiempo. Desde hace veinte años, cada vez que creo haber acabado con ello, vuelvo. Para decir cosas diferentes y contradictorias. Novelas, historias cortas, canciones, películas. Imagino siempre que un día podré acabar con ello. Liquidar el evento, vaciarlo, agotarlo.

Imposible. Es fundacional. De lo que soy como escritora, como mujer que ya no es exactamente una. Es al mismo tiempo lo que me desfigura y lo que me constituye.”
― Virginie Despentes, Teoría King Kong

“In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli
Bodies of holy men and women exude
Miraculous oil, odour of violet.
But under heavy loads of trampled clay
Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood;
Their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet
("Oil and Blood")”
― W.B. Yeats, The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats

“But I know him, Moss. It’s Sparrowhawk.” Saying the name, Ged’s use-name, released a tenderness in her, so that for the first time she thought and felt that this was he indeed, and that all the years since she had first seen him were their bond. She saw a light like a star in darkness, underground, long ago, and his face in the light.”
― Ursula K. Le Guin, Tehanu

“Natalie Waite, who was seventeen years old but who felt that she had been truly conscious only since she was about fifteen, lived in an odd corner of the world of sound and sight past the daily voices of her father and mother and their incomprehensible actions. For the past two years—since, in fact, she had turned around suddenly one bright morning and seen from the corner of her eye a person called Natalie, existing, charted, inescapably located on a sport of ground, favored with sense and feet and a bright-red sweater, and most obscurely alive—she had lived completely by herself, allowing not even her father access to the farther places of her mind. She visited strange countries, and the voices of their inhabitants were constantly in her ear; when her father spoke he was accompanied by a sound of distant laughter, unheard probably by anyone else except his daughter.”
― Shirley Jackson, Hangsaman