I do not find it strange to be raised a boy. I know nothing different, and for many years I think the world is made thus. Grandmother lends us a book of ancient myths, and so I believe all bodies are as loose as the bodies in those stories. Zeus changes into a swan to have his way with Leda; Daphne changes to a tree to escape some other cockish god. I figure there is a truth running through these tales like a thread of gristle through meat: that you can be one thing, and then another. Sometimes it’s a threat; sometimes it’s a promise.
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Francesca De Tores ‘Saltblood’#элайза_цитата
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The first time I chose in ignorance, knowing nothing of what it is to be a sailor. This second time, I know well enough the cost it demands. Saltblooded, wholehearted, I choose the sea.
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Francesca De Tores ‘Saltblood’#элайза_цитата
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I wonder what name Anne will call me now, a new name for this new thing. In the dark, with all our pasts and stories set aside, she might speak my true name – it might rise from her mouth like something surfacing in water. I listen for my name to emerge. I wait, my ear close to her mouth, and all that long night my name is Yes.
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Francesca De Tores ‘Saltblood’#элайза_цитата
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Truth is, for us, death isn’t a thing we have glimpsed a few times in a gibbet, in some far-off port. Death is right next to us, sniffing our salt beef and trailing a finger over the side of the cocket-boat to test the water. We are pirates; death is beside us in the rigging and in our hammocks and right here, around this fire, with a pitcher of bad rum and the patience to wait for all of us, each one.
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Francesca De Tores ‘Saltblood’#элайза_цитата
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A sister is not a friend. Who can explain the urge to take a relationship as primal and complex as a sibling and reduce it to something as replaceable, as banal as a friend? Yet this status is used again and again to connote the highest intimacy. My mother is my best friend. My husband is my best friend. No. True sisterhood, the kind where you grew fingernails in the same womb, were pushed screaming through identical birth canals, is not the same as friendship. You don’t choose each other, and there’s no furtive period of getting to know the other. You’re part of each other, right from the start. Look at an umbilical cord—tough, sinuous, unlovely, yet essential—and compare it to a friendship bracelet of brightly woven thread. That is the difference between a sister and a friend.
Coco Mellors ‘Blue Sisters’
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How sad it is, this fear of the disease. This fear of anything different about others. Is it really so bad, not to be perfect of mind and body? And what, or who, is perfect anyway? Shouldn’t kindness and spirit, or joy in the simplest of pleasures, be of equal importance?
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Louise Fein ‘The Hidden Child’#элайза_цитата
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элайза ридс | о книгах
💫Гид по книжным отзывам за 1-е полугодие 2024 Eliza Clark ‘Penance’ Эллисон Сафт ‘A Fragile Enchantment’ Emma Denny ‘One Night in Hartswood’ Amy Goldsmith ‘Those We Drown’ Джессика Аня Блау «Мэри Джейн» Frances White ‘Voyage of the Damned’ L. L. McKinney…
Чуть не забыла про свой традиционный пост-содержание канала. Больше таких постов можно найти в закрепленной навигации🤎
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‘Being a monster does not stop you from being a woman. In fact, I think an essential part of being a woman is finding that part of you that others would see as monstrous; finding it and nurturing it so that it does not overtake who you are. If you ignore it or try to hide it, that is when other people will turn it against you.’
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Nataly Gruender ‘Medusa’#элайза_цитата
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A good woman. How odd that the phrase has such a particular meaning. One might say “a good man” and mean anything — there are as many ways of being a good man, it seems, as there are of being a man at all. But there is only one way to be a good woman. It is such a narrow, stunted, blighted way to be that I wonder any woman throughout history has been up to the task. Perhaps none of us ever have.
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Elliot Gish ‘Grey Dog’#элайза_цитата
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Suchi knew now that home wasn’t a place. It wasn’t moments that could be pinned down. It was people, people who shared the same ghosts as you, of folks long gone, places long disappeared. People who knew you, saw you, loved you. When those people were far-flung, your home was too. And when those people were gone, home lived on inside you.
Karissa Chen ‘Homeseeking’
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