I am an avid collector of words that hold meaning to me. This is a selection of what I have collected so far.
We are reminded of the old Persian curse: “May your every desire be immediately fulfilled.”
I do it for the joy it brings
Because I’m a joyful girl
Because the world owes me nothing
And we owe each other the world
I am a poster girl with no poster
She reminded me of a warning I was fond of repeating: do not, under any circumstances, belittle a work of fiction by trying to turn it into a carbon copy of real life; what we search for in fiction is not so much reality but the epiphany of truth.
For a brief time we experienced collectively the kind of awful beauty that can only be grasped through extreme anguish and expressed through art.
I am struck by a sudden thought: memories have ways of becoming independent of the reality they evoke. They can soften us against those we were deeply hurt by or they can make us resent those we once accepted and loved unconditionally.
She got ironic tattoos on her back
That ain’t ironic b****, I love Rugrats
“What a beautiful name,” Kimberly said. “Does it mean anything? I love multicultural names because they have such wonderful meanings, from wonderful rich cultures.” Kimberly was smiling the kindly smile of people who thought “culture” the unfamiliar colourful reserve of colourful people, a word that always had to be qualified with “rich”. She would not think Norway had a “rich culture”.
Women are the cowards they are because they have been semi-slaves for so long. The number of women prepared to stand up for what they really think, feel, experience with a man they are in love with is still small.
During the last year, reading these stories, these novels, in which there might be an occasional paragraph, a sentence, a phrase, of truth; I’ve been forced to acknowledge that the flashes of genuine art are all out of deep, suddenly stark, undisguisable private emotion.