Don’t judge others because they sin differently than you.
…don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. Or, perhaps, stay and save my life.
I am what you designed me to be. I am your blade. You cannot now complain if you also feel the hurt.
- Pip: I have seen you give him looks and smiles this very night, such as you never give to - me.
- Estella: Do you want me then to deceive and entrap you?
- Pip: Do you deceive and entrap him, Estella?
- Estella: Yes, and many others - all of them but you.
Her heart was heavy because it was open, and so things filled it, and so things rushed out of it, but still the heart kept beating, tough and frighteningly powerful and meaning to shrug off the rest of her and continue on its own.
Being born a woman is an awful tragedy… Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars - to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording - all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night…
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth
“And that’s the beauty of having a twin who knows you better than you know yourself. I can know for you. If you needed a kidney or a liver transplant, I’d be your best bet, because inside we’re the same. I’m just applying the same principle. I’m going to give you some of my heart to use until yours starts beating again.”
-Jonathan Tropper, How to Talk to a Widower (pages 124)
“The point is, people become possessive of their grief, almost proud of it. They want to believe it’s like no one else’s. But it is. It’s exactly like everybody else’s. Grief is like a shark. It’s been around forever, and in that time there’s been just about no evolution. You know why?”
“Because it’s perfect just the way it is.”
-Jonathan Tropper, How to Talk to a Widower (pages 135-36 )