"As A Woman There's Just Something Inherently Vulnerable And Humiliating About Being Naked While Wearing

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

To the little girl who faded with the dying light of October, 1922— My dearest Cecilia, It is with unbearable grief that I write to you. Each passing day, I am forced to reconcile with the weight of your absence, haunted by the silence you left behind. Although it wasn’t my hands that took your life, my heart aches with regret— because in the silence of my heart, I have convinced myself that it was my fault.

—A lady and her quill, Letters to dead children.

“𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝐺𝑟𝑦𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑟, 𝑊𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑡 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡, 𝑇𝘩𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝘩𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑦, 𝑆𝑒𝑡 𝐺𝑟𝑦𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡;

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

Obsession beats talent every time.

The city was silently bloating in the hot sun, rotting like the thousands of bodies that lay where they had fallen in street battles. An oppressive, hot wind blew from the southeast, carrying with it the putrefying stench of decay. And outside the city walls, Death itself waited— in the persons of Titus, son of Vespasian, and sixty thousand legionnaires, who were anxious to gut the City of God.

—Francine Rivers, A Voice in the Wind (Mark of the Lion series).

𝑇𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝐴 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝑎 𝑏𝑎𝑠𝑘𝑒𝑡 𝑠𝘩𝑒’𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑑. 𝑃𝑢𝑟𝑒-𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟, 𝐻𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑠𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠, 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟.

𝑇𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑎 𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑛, 𝑠𝑜 𝑏𝑜𝑙𝑑, 𝑊𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝑎 𝑏𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑛 𝘩𝑎𝑛𝑑, 𝑎 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑔𝑜𝑙𝑑. 𝐻𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑠 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑐𝘩 𝑡𝑜 𝘩𝑒𝑙𝑝 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑜𝑟, 𝐴 𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑜’𝑠 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑡, 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒.

—A lady and her quill, Courage Worn in Scarlet and Green

My personal fig tree