“Correct me if I remember it badly, But was there not a dream, sweet but also terrible, In which Eurydice, strangely, preceded you? And you followed, knowing exactly what to expect, and of course she did turn.””—Donald Justice, Invitation to a Ghost
I would describe myself like a landscape I’ve studied at length, in detail; like a word I’m coming to understand; like a pitcher I pour from at mealtime; like my mother’s face; like a ship that carried me when the waters raged.
“It’s a bore, but the answer is good things only happen to you if you’re good. Good? Honest is more what I mean. Not law-type honest- I’d rob a grave, I’d steal two-bits off a dead man’s eyes if I thought it would contribute to the day’s enjoyment- but unto-thyself-type honest. Be anything but a coward, a pretender, an emotional crook, a whore: I’d rather have cancer than a dishonest heart.”—Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Truman Capote (via prose-titute)