literature

Girls who read books, don’t want a prince charming riding on a white horse to barge into their lives with a happily ever-after and change their world forever.
They want someone who will slip into their life silently, holding them up. The one whose eyes will penetrate into their soul and delve into the depths of their emotions. They want someone who will kiss their scars and read the stories behind each one of them. They don’t wait for a man who will hold their hand and guide them to light. They dream about someone who will be brave enough to explore the darkness hidden inside them. They wait for the one who will bask in the fog of their frozen soul without shivering.
I loved you so much once. I did. More than anything in the whole wide world. Imagine that. What a laugh that is now. Can you believe it? We were so intimate once upon a time I can’t believe it now. The memory of being that intimate with somebody. We were so intimate I could puke. I can’t imagine ever being that intimate with somebody else. I haven’t been.
—  Raymond Carver, Where I’m Calling From: New and Selected Stories
He knew why he wanted to kiss her. Because she was beautiful. And before that, because she was kind. And before that, because she was smart and funny. Because she was exactly the right kind of smart and funny. Because he could imagine taking a long trip with her without ever getting bored. Because whenever he saw something new and interesting, or new and ridiculous, he always wondered what she’d have to say about it—how many stars she’d give it and why.
—  Rainbow Rowell, Attachments
I did not know what silence was until I found myself glancing at the time and finding I had spent the last three hours in numb contemplation without realizing my night had worn away, leaving me much to far into the am to bother with sleep. I did not know what silence was until I heard the things my thoughts whispered when they thought I’d be sleeping.