"I was concerned with the idea that I would have to die eventually, and so would everyone I loved. My father, who carried me on his shoulders whenever I got tired? He would have to die one day. My mother, who smelled so much like flowers that I would think of any excuse to make her bend down close to me (“Is there something on my face?” was a favorite ploy) because sometimes, as she did, her long black hair would fall over my face and I could pretend it was my own hair? She too was going to die. Whether it happened now, soon, or later didn’t matter. Once someone died, time was irrelevant, time was useless, time was over."
she died of alcoholism
wrapped in a blanket
on a deck chair
on an ocean
all her books of
all her books about
of loveless love
were all that was left
as the strolling vacationer
discovered her body
notified the captain
and she was quickly dispatched
to somewhere else
on the ship
she had written it
"An unlimited capacity for work and for pleasure that satisfies yourself, your own needs, first and foremost——that’s the only kind of leaning in I’m interested in."
"Dear Dick," I wrote in one of many letters, "what happens between women now is the most interesting thing in the world because it’s least described."
"what would it take for you to really give up on someone
I wrote this in my journal about 7 years ago
I give up on the journal more than I give up on other people
every few months I write an entry and I say ok every
day now an entry and
the journal is all like this guy again really
really the journal is always there for me though it is like me"
"On the Internet, we’re like kids staring at our faces in spoons. But since the Internet is sort of everything, it seems like it’s impossible to say anything true about it."
"I also have a lot of older men who don’t understand why I have my job and it’s not theirs."