Faustus: Stay, Mephistopheles, And Tell Me, What Good Willmy Soul Do Thy Lord?Mephistopheles: Enlarge

Faustus: Stay, Mephistopheles, and tell me, what good will my soul do thy lord? Mephistopheles: Enlarge his kingdom. Faustus: Is that the reason he tempts us thus? Mephistopheles: Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris. (It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery.)

Christopher Marlowe, Dr Faustus

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(via wholesomeobsessive)

Lou Ann hid a smile with her hand. ‘What?’ ‘Nothing.’ I could see perfectly well she was still smiling. 'Come on, what is it?’ 'It’s been so long,’ she said. 'You talk just like me.’

The Bean Trees by Barbara Kingsolver (via frazzlem0nster)

I never could figure out why men thought they could impress a woman by making the world out to be such a big dangerous deal. I mean, we’ve got to live in the exact same world every damn day of the week, don’t we?

Barbara Kingsolver, The Bean Trees (via meadow-queen-main)

Being Born Again has only increased her parents’ already well-developed sense of infallibility. After all, if God has chosen you, how can you ever be wrong again? About anything. Her parents found God when she was a teenager. Far too late for Ruth, although she had, for a time, accompanied them to services. She has never found God but, then again, she isn’t about to go looking.

The Janus Stone by Elly Griffiths  (via wholesomeobsessive)

The sun came out even before the hail stopped. There was a rainbow over the mountains behind the city, and over that another rainbow with the colors upside down. Between the two rainbows the sky was brighter than everywhere else, like a white sheet lit from the back. In a few minutes it was hot. I had on a big red pullover sweater and was starting to sweat. Arizona didn’t do anything halfway. If Arizona was a movie you wouldn’t believe it. You’d say it was too corny for words.

Barbara Kingsolver, The Bean Trees (via burritosaur)

Here in these lives we’ve built for ourselves, here in these hard and glittering cities, none of this would seem real if it wasn’t for you.

Emily St. John Mandel, Station Eleven (via wholesomeobsessive)