She goes where she pleases. She appears unhoped for, uncalled for. She moves through doors and walls and windows. Her thoughts move through minds. She enters dreams. She vanishes and is still there. She knows the future and sees through flesh. She is not afraid of anything.
Girls are always saying things like, "I'm so unhappy that I'm going to overdose on aspirin," but they'd be awfully surprised if they succeeded. They have no intention of dying. At the first sight of blood, they panic."
I love that moment, when you stop struggling to stay awake and your eyelids shut sink down and you slip effortlessly into another realm that's beckoning to you.
I have always been intrigued by the journals that girls keep. They are like dollhouses. Once you look inside them, the rest of the world seems very far away, even unbelievable.
To sublime: to pass directly from the solid to the vapor state. To sublimate: to divert the expression of an instinctual desire or impulse from its primitive form to one that is considered more socially or culturally acceptable. Sublime: of outstanding spiritual, intellectual, or moral worth.
Some days I wonder how I'll get through a whole lifetime of thinking. A life that's just words, words, words, shuffling around in my head. Was I born that way?
I can't imagine what it would be like to have sex with a man. To be so intimate with another person. Not to hide anything. I don't know if I could do that. It would have to be a boy anyway, not a grown man, someone as scared as me.
I spent most of this weekend sitting on the sofa reading Proust. The only time my mother left her studio, which she locked behind her, was to go to Thanksgiving dinner at my aunt's house.