[b]Jeanette Winterson
Romantic love has been diluted into paperback form and has sold thousands and millions of copies. Somewhere it is still in the original, written on tablets of stone.[/b]
Among other things, fuck that.
Physics, mathematics, music, painting, my politics, my love for you, my work, the star-dust of my body, the spirit that impels it, clocks diurnal, time perpetual, the roll, rough, tender, swamping, liberating, breathing, moving, thinking nature, human nature and the cosmos are patterned together.
Or, sure, not.
Her suffering was her armour. Gradually it became her skin. Then she could not take it off.
How sick is that?
Whelks are strange and comforting.
They have no notion of community life and they breed very quietly.
But they have a strong sense of personal dignity.
Even lying face down in a tray of vinegar there is something noble about a whelk.
Which cannot be said for everybody.
Do they know that?
When you are born–what you are born into, the place, the history of the place, how that history mates with your own–stamps who you are, whatever the pundits of globalization have to say.
Just short of racism one hopes. Or some do.
The important things happen by chance. Only the rest gets planned.
In other words, just vague enough to be plausible.