Jacquelyn Brooks;

The hearts of women are like those little pieces of furniture with secret hiding places, full of drawers fitted into each other; you go through a lot of trouble, break your nails, and in the bottom find some withered flower, a few grains of dust - or emptiness.

—Gustave Flaubert, “Sentimental Education.” (via micaceous)

(Source: lecerise, via mysoliloqies)

Quite simply, I was in love with New York. I do not mean “love” in any colloquial way, I mean that I was in love with the city, the way you love the first person who ever touches you and you never love anyone quite that way again. I remember walking across Sixty-second Street one twilight that first spring, or the second spring, they were all alike for a while. I was late to meet someone but I stopped at Lexington Avenue and bought a peach and stood on the corner eating it and knew that I had come out out of the West and reached the mirage. I could taste the peach and feel the soft air blowing from a subway grating on my legs and I could smell lilac and garbage and expensive perfume and I knew that it would cost something sooner or later – because I did not belong there, did not come from there – but when you are twenty-two or twenty-three, you figure that later you will have a high emotional balance, and be able to pay whatever it costs. I still believed in possibilities then, still had the sense, so peculiar to New York, that something extraordinary would happen any minute, any day, any month.

—“Goodbye To All That,” Joan Didion  (via commovente)

(via mysoliloqies)