Hell Hath No Limits, Nor Is Circumscribed In One Self Place, For Where We Are Is Hell, And Where Hell

Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed In one self place, for where we are is hell, And where hell is must we ever be

Christopher Marlowe, Dr. Faustus (via wholesomeobsessive)

Throughout history, men have broken women’s hearts in a particular way. They love them or half-love them and then grow weary and spend weeks and months extricating themselves soundlessly, pulling their tails back into their doorways, drying themselves off, and never calling again. Meanwhile, women wait. The more in love they are and the fewer options they have, the longer they wait, hoping that he will return with a smashed phone, with a smashed face, and say, I’m sorry, I was buried alive and the only thing I thought of was you, and feared that you would think I’d forsaken you when the truth is only that I lost your number, it was stolen from me by the men who buried me alive, and I’ve spent three years looking in phone books and now I have found you. I didn’t disappear, everything I felt didn’t just leave. You were right to know that would be cruel, unconscionable, impossible. Marry me.

Prologue to Three Women, Lisa Taddeo

She had always thought that exquisitely happy time at the beginning of her relationship with Nick was the ultimate, the feeling they’d always be trying to replicate, to get back, but now she realized that was wrong. That was like comparing sparkling mineral water to French champagne. Early love is exciting and exhilarating. It’s light and bubbly. Anyone can love like that. But love after three children, after a separation and a near-divorce, after you’ve hurt each other and forgiven each other, bored each other and surprised each other, after you’ve seen the worst and the best - well, that sort of a love is ineffable. It deserves its own word.

What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty (via wholesomeobsessive)

A stranger is shot in the street, you hardly move to help. But if, half an hour before, you spent just ten minutes with the fellow and knew a little about him and his family, you might just jump in front of his killer and try to stop it. Really knowing is good. Not knowing, or refusing to know is bad, or amoral, at least. You can’t act if you don’t know.

Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes (via wholesomeobsessive)

And she was curious about me, too, something that I’d not experienced for some time.  We talked about our parents and our siblings, our work and friends, our schools and childhoods, the implication being that we would need to know this information for the future. Of course, after nearly a quarter of a century, the questions about our distant pasts have all been posed and we’re left with ‘how was your day?’ and ‘when will you be home?’ and 'have you put the bins out?'  Our biographies involve each other so intrinsically now that we’re both on nearly every page.  We know the answers because we were there, and so curiosity becomes hard to maintain; replaced, I suppose, my nostalgia.

Us by David Nicholls (via wholesomeobsessive)