I would, even if I had to adapt one, even if I had to make one up just for her. “Gets away from what, though?”
“From her fairy godmother. From the happy ending that isn’t really happy at all. Please have her get out and run off the page altogether, to somewhere secret where words like ‘happy’ and ‘good’ will never find her.”
“You don’t want her to be happy and good?”
“I’m not sure what’s really meant by happy and good. I would like her to be free. Now. Please begin.”—White is for Witching, Helen Oyeyemi
“She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.”—Virginia Woolf, The Years
“I love that moment. When you’re on a long car ride, or listening to music, or reading. And you completely zone out. You forget your troubles, and everyone around you. You’re focused on that one thing, and that one thing only. You’re content, and everything seems peaceful.”—(via pariswiwe)
“Too many young girls don’t know how to act when someone’s being inappropriate with them. They giggle or they try to brush it off. Don’t do that. Tell them to go fuck themselves - be a bitch. If someone’s being disrespectful to you, be disrespectful right back. Show them the same amount of respect that they show you.”—Wise words from my mom
Learn to know people. Watch their facial expressions, watch the way their body twists and bends. Listen to their laughter, listen to the way their voice cracks when they’re upset. Find their weakness, their broken points, their darkness. Find their light. Find the things unique to them. Ask them about their childhood, ask them about their favorite place to read, ask them what their last words would be if they could choose. Know them. (x)
“You are like a shell,” he said. “A seashell. Hollow but beautiful.” “Hollow.” She nodded. For the rest of the day, they sat not far from each other, gazing out the window at the light shifting almost imperceptibly. They sat about and let themselves be objects on which dust might settle, air might pass, light could play. “I am just an emptiness,” she said. “No,” he told her. “You are a resting place.”
“It is decided for us before we are even born,
the mixing of our parents’ DNA determining whether
we will have the bulbous nose of our grandfathers
or the slim wrists of our great-aunts. I have seen
girls and women alike do everything in their power
to be branded as pretty. I have seen them digging
hard into the dirt, crawling on all fours in the dark
for the word, two syllables, meaning delicately
attractive but not truly beautiful. I have read
about wars fought for the sake of this word,
this word that means almost but not quite. Still,
those of us deemed worthy enough wear it proudly
on our foreheads like a kiss from the Dalai Lama,
a six-letter prophecy straight out of God’s mouth.
Do you know what it costs us? Do you know how
empty our pockets are? That there are days
when I wake up and stand in front of the mirror
with my self-worth staring back at me, accusatory
and glaring, pointing her finger, and all I care about
is pretty? Am I pretty yet? Am I worth anything?
Pretty, pretty, pretty. It is a heartbeat. I say it
to myself, over and over again until it is a swarm
of bees in my mouth, stinging and brutal and
repetitive. Hurts so good, pretty does. I find the
tenderest spot and press down hard until I jaundice.
Anything for pretty. The shape in the mirror shifts.
Becomes my daughter, asking me if she is pretty,
hands buried deep in my makeup bag. Her mouth
painted on crooked, a fake eyelash stuck to her
cheek. She is not pretty. She is real, hot-blooded
and stubborn, grin splitting her face wide. Pretty
is not enough. She is a warrior crouched on the
bathroom sink, face peering into the mirror,
asking why I do this to myself every morning.
I wipe her face. She asks again if she’s pretty,
persistent on getting her answer. I tell her no.
Tell her that pretty is something to never aspire
to be. It is a rest-stop, somewhere to go when
she’s on her way to becoming something better.
She nods in understanding and then uncaps my
lipstick. Eats it, and then licks her fingers afterward.
Tells me that she’d rather be pretty on the
inside anyway. My darling girl.”—Kristina Haynes, “To Be Pretty”
“The truth is that the more intimately you know someone, the more clearly you’ll see their flaws. That’s just the way it is. This is why marriages fail, why children are abandoned, why friendships don’t last. You might think you love someone until you see the way they act when they’re out of money or under pressure or hungry, for goodness’ sake. Love is something different. Love is choosing to serve someone and be with someone in spite of their filthy heart. Love is patient and kind, love is deliberate. Love is hard. Love is pain and sacrifice, it’s seeing the darkness in another person and defying the impulse to jump ship.”—(via thatkindofwoman)
“Maybe you just have to live for the small things, like being called pretty or someone picking up the pen you dropped or laughing so hard that your stomach hurts. Maybe that’s all that really matters at the end of the day.”—Tianna Kavanagh
“The same feeling of not belonging, of futility, wherever I go: I pretend interest in what matters nothing to me, I bestir myself mechanically or out of charity, without ever being caught up, without ever being somewhere. What attracts me is elsewhere, and I don’t know what that elsewhere is.”—E. M. Cioran
“The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.”—Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country
“Sometimes I imagine my own autopsy. Disappointment in myself: right kidney. Disappointment of others in me: left kidney. Personal failures: kishkes. When the clocks are turned back and the dark falls before I’m ready, this, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel in my wrists. And when I wake up and my fingers are stiff , almost certainly I was dreaming of my childhood. Yesterday I saw a man kicking a dog and I felt it behind my eyes. I don’t know what to call this, a place before tears. The pain of forgetting: spine. The pain of remembering: spine. All the times I have suddenly realized that my parents are dead, even now, it still surprises me, to exist in the world while that which made me has ceased to exist: my knees.To everything a season, to every time I’ve woken only to make the mistake of believing for a moment that someone was sleeping beside me: a hemorrhoid. Loneliness: there is no organ that can take it all.”—Nicole Krauss, The History of Love