[b]Jeanette Winterson
There is always a city. There is always a civilization. There is always a barbarian with a pickaxe. Sometimes you are the city, sometimes you are the civilization, but to become that city, that civilization, you once took a pickaxe and destroyed what you hated, and what you hated is what you did not understand.[/b]
In other words, back again to genes and memes.
It was Hell, if hell is where the life we love cannot exist.
If even Hell itself describes it.
Everyone assumed it had to be some sort of biography, because if you are a woman and use yourself as a character, it has to be some sort of confessional, whereas if you’re a man, you’re actually doing some post-modern play on the novel, some critique on identity with lots of references to Foucault.
Come on, admit she has a point here.
The pursuit [of happiness] isn’t all or nothing—it’s all and nothing.
At any rate, for some of us, eventually.
The curious are always in some danger. If you are curious you might never come home, like all the men who now live with mermaids at the bottom of the sea.
Not counting Allen Bauer of course.
As he turned inwards she turned outwards, but while he wore his intensity like a garment, she slept in hers.
Seems counterintuitive doesn’t it?