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florareadsworld · 1 year
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Emily Dickinson.
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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Theresa's passionate, ideal nature demanded an epic life: what were many-volumed romances of chivalry and the social conquests of a brilliant girl to her?
George Eliot [Mary Ann Evans], Middlemarch.
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow, The sunset hangs on a cloud; A golden storm of glittering sheaves, Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves, The wild wind blows in a cloud. Hark to a voice that is calling To my heart in the voice of the wind: My heart is weary and sad and alone, For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone, And why should I stay behind?
Sarojini Naidu, Autumn Song.
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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I rose at the dead of night And went to the lattice alone To look for my Mother's ghost Where the ghostly moonlight shone. My friends had failed one by one, Middle aged, young and old, Till the ghosts were warmer to me Than my friends that had grown cold.
Christina Rossetti, A Chilly Night.
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all
Emily Dickinson.
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting, The perfume and suppliance of a minute. No more.
William Shakespeare, Hamlet.
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol.
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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I am afraid of falling into hopeless despair, over my wasted life, and I am still not sure how it happened.
Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace.
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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One need not be a Chamber – to be Haunted– One need not be a House – The Brain has Corridors – surpassing – Material Place –
Emily Dickinson, c. 1863
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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Gone mad is what they say, and sometimes Run mad, as if mad is a direction, like west; as if mad is a different house you could step into, or a separate country entirely. But when you go mad you don't go any other place, you stay where you are. And somebody else comes in.
Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace.
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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I cry at nothing, and I cry most of the time.
Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Yellow Wallpaper.
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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Wish I were her
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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Might fuck around and read the Kendall & Kylie Jenner sci-fi novel
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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“you’re so pretty,” okay write poetry about me then.
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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Surely, since she is a woman, and a beautiful woman, and a woman in the prime of life, she will soon give over this pretence of writing and thinking and begin at least to think of a gamekeeper (and as long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking).
Virginia Woolf, Orlando.
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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