“What would Prince Charming have for occupation if he had not to awaken the Sleeping beauty?”

When someone you love dies you pay for the sin of outliving her with a thousand piercing regrets.

The sin of smiling whilst Louise was weeping, the sin of shedding my own tears and not hers. The sin of being another being.

One always has to wait until the sugar melts, the memory dies, the wound scars over, the sun sets, the unhappiness lifts and fades away.

To will oneself moral and to will oneself free are one and the same decision.

She was not to look beyond herself for the meaning of her life.

Capabilities are clearly manifested only when they have been realized.

To be oneself, simply oneself, is so amazing and utterly unique an experience that it’s hard to convince oneself so singular a thing happens to everybody.

The body is the instrument of our hold on the world.

Authentic love must be founded on reciprocal recognition of two freedoms.

Her wings are cut and then she is blamed for not knowing how to fly.

People seem to think that if you keep your head empty you automatically fill your balls.

There is something in the New York air that makes sleep useless.

When you stubbornly give one man a chance, you arbitrarily deny it to another one.

Self-consciousness is not knowledge but a story one tells about oneself.

Literature takes its revenge on reality by making it the slave of fiction.

One of the benefits that oppression secures for the oppressor is that the humblest among them feels superior.

Most books on witchcraft will tell you that witches work naked. This is because most books on witchcraft were written by men.

I liked myths. They weren’t adult stories and they weren’t children’s stories. They were better than that. They just were.

Somehow you’d had your mermaids never smell like fish.

Monsters only ever exist in the shadows if you look for them.

We would look with scorn at witch mothers who build towers but not at princes who lust after caged women.

Careful your fantasies are showing.

Like a busy fairy smiling in its own melancholy on unending Friday nights, the loving wings of my realistic fantasies, spread themselves as wide as the sea.

I was in love with my own chaos, gripping tightly onto fantasies, falling into traps that swallowed me whole. I am in awe of how chaotic I am, as falling hard into my own trap saved me from who I became.