84
" Litchat, however, is singleminded. Seemingly, it can only conceive of a writer’s persona as one thing at a time: a prick, a detached brainiac, a suffering saint. Litchat is adamant, yes, and impervious to factual challenges, but that tends to be true of all strong opinions formed on a basis of incomplete and selective evidence. The weaker our footing, the more fiercely we defend it. We believe it not because it fits what we know—we know next to nothing, after all—but because we need to believe this particular thing at this particular time, regardless of what the truth may be. It suits our purposes to do so, and one of those purposes may be as flimsy as the desire to be excused from reading the books in question before telling the world what we think of them. "
― Laura Miller
85
" In general, when a novel manipulates its material to conform to the pieties of the day, or alternatively to attack those pieties for no other reason than the visibility such an attack will generate, when its literary tropes are all too familiar, its clever prose reminiscent of other clever prose, then the compass needle is slipping away from true north . . . When, on the other hand, the author renounces some easy twist, some expected payoff, to take us into territory we didn’t expect but that nevertheless fits with the drift of the story, then the novel gains force and conviction. And when he or she does it again, telling quite a different story that is nevertheless driven by the same urgent tensions, then we are likely moving into the zone of authenticity. "
― Tim Parks
96
" You’re thinking, maybe it would be easier to let it slip
let it go
say ”I give up” one last time and give him a sad smile.
You’re thinking
it shouldn’t be this hard,
shouldn’t be this dark,
thinking
love could flow easily with no holding back
and you’ve seen others find their match and build something great
together,
of each other,
like two halves fitting perfectly and now they achieve great things
one by one, always together, and it seems grand.
But you love him. Love him like a black stone in your chest you couldn’t live without because it fits in there. Makes you who you are and the thought of him gone—no more—makes your chest tighten up and
maybe this is your fairytale. Maybe this is your castle.
You could get it all on a shiny piece of glass with wooden stools and a neverending blooming garden
but that’s not yours. This is yours. The cracks and the faults,
the ugly words in the winter
walking home alone and angry
but falling asleep thinking you love him.
This is your fairy tale.
The quiet in the hallway, wishing for him to turn around, tell you to stay, tell you to please don’t go I need you
like you need me
and maybe it’s not a Jane Austen novel but this is your novel and
your castle
and you can run from it your whole life but this is here
in front of you.
Maybe nurture it?
Sweet girl, maybe close the world off and look at him for an hour
or two.
This is your fairy.
It ain’t perfect and it ain’t honey sweet with roses on the bed.
It’s real and raw and ugly at times. But this is your love.
Don’t throw it away searching for someone else’s love. Don’t be greedy. Instead, shelter it. Protect it. Capture every second of easy, pull through every storm of hardship. And when you can, look at him, lying next to you, trusting you not to harm him. Trusting you not to go.
Be someone’s someone for someone.
Be that someone for him.
That’s your fairy tale. This is your castle.
Now move in. Build a home. Build a house. Build a safety around things you love.
It’s yours if you make it so.
Welcome home, sweet girl, it will be all be fine. "
― Charlotte Eriksson