Christine. 24. New York.
queer/YA novelist. broke barista. avid reader. shameless cat lady. raised midwestern. former Philadelphian.currently reading: The Wife (Meg Wolitzer)
2014 challenge: 38/50
"Was this the epiphany of adult life, that it actually wasn’t exciting and vast in possibilities, but was in fact as enclosed and proscribed as childhood? What a disappointment, for I’d been looking forward to the open field, the imagined release. Or maybe, I thought as I watched a young mother stride across her living room, then suddenly stoop down to pick something up (A shoe? A squeak toy?), only men ever felt that release. For women in 1956 were always confronting boundaries, negotiations: where they could walk at night, how far they could let a man go when the two of them were alone. Men hardly seemed troubled by these things; they walked everywhere in cold, dark cities and pin-drop empty streets, and they let their hands go walking, too, and they opened their belts and then their trousers, and they never thought to themselves: I must stop this right now. I must not go any further."
"Maybe that was what it was like to be a writer: Even with the eyes closed, you could see."
"I’d decided: enough. No more drinks. No more putting on pearls, or fluffy cardigans, no more staring O-mouthed into a mirror as I applied Taste of Xanadu lip color, no more being met in the parlor of my dormitory by a galumphing boy with an outsized Adam’s apple. No more grasping, no more breasts perennially being popped from the shells of brassiere cups in the darkness of that same boy’s car, no more letting his wet and hopeful doglike face land on those breasts. For if I kept doing those things, I knew, then I would become tinier and less substantial, of no real interest to anyone, male or female, and when I finally had access to the world, it wouldn’t even want me."
"Dating is probably the most fraught human interaction there is. You’re sizing people up to see if they’re worth your time and attention, and they’re doing the same to you. It’s meritocracy applied to personal life, but there’s no accountability. We submit ourselves to these intimate inspections and simultaneously inflict them on others and try to keep our psyches intact—to keep from becoming cold and callous—and we hope that at the end of it we wind up happier than our grandparents, who didn’t spend this vast period of their lives, these prime years, so thoroughly alone, cold and explicitly anatomized again and again. But who cares, right? It’s just girl stuff."
"The spring of his sophomore year, he began to read from feverish loneliness, a loneliness he began to fear would be permanent. After all, if he, someone like him, wasn’t happy in college, where and when would he be happy?"
"I had always been the kind of reader who marked up books and lent them out indiscriminately, knowing I’d never see them again but wanting friends to read them and be as thrilled as I was."
"Our dreams are none the less terrible to lose because they have never been the realities for which we have mistaken them."
Theme by Lauren Ashpole