George Eliot, in a letter to Miss Lewis, dated October 1, 1841 featured in George Eliot’s Life, as Related in her Letters and Journals
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My soul is so knit to yours.
— George Eliot, My Gothic Heart, (2023)
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A siren, a female being made of liquid stars and all the unnecessary wars. A beauty that is overpowered by rejection an overdose of a vitamin…
Well, I’m begged for redemption only i lure to self destruction.
I sing about broken promises that lasts a lifetime and fears that grow as you do... grow viscously, and as big as the void an emotionally absent parent can leave behind in you.
I’m one year closer to my mid twenties It took me a life time to realize It’s not love that I’ve been starved from
It’s the comfort of feeling seen, without dressing myself up with all the glamorous words that I weighed myself down with since i was a child
forced to communicate; only to please. Now I sing, and it’s out of tune but I seduce and I ruin.
I was loved growing up, i felt so even when no one ever gave me a definition to what love really means.
Maybe they didn’t even know it was missing.
I felt indestructible so I kept stripping my love from misconceptions; only to be left with suffering
Now I know better. It’s either leaving or being left and both in a way are synonyms of love.
the residual of that love is almost nonexistent among the memories that resemble a never ending internal bleeding.
That being said, tragedies stands out more and i use them like bookmarks to my memories.
So i love; and i leave.
I cut into myself with my own teeth dissecting the pieces with my tongue knowing very well how much it will hurt me to taste something that i don’t recognize…
I spend most of my hours dwelling on all the parts of me that make me a duplication of my mother
hypocritically i pack them in the carry on bag that’s always open on my bedroom floor
So ready to leave; just like my father. he emptied more of me in his bags every weekend for business trips
Carving unintentional hollows and leaving them for my mother to fill.
I thought he was the one sacrificing himself, until I noticed that alot of my missing pieces are still under his bed.
Mama doesn’t like it when I point out where my father went wrong she loves him too much, and i .. i reflect that love; by leaving
I know they did their best molding me into a human that knows how to survive, but that’s all I know now.
I don’t understand affection, nor how to accept it in my body.
Not even when I crave it; i suspect it’s because I’m too full of myself and if I feel this way… why would I expect anyone to carve themselves out to fit me in ?
Anyway, I don’t know how to ask women for acceptance and men can’t stand me cause I don’t flatter them
Love sounds like a curse to me.
What if I loved for all the wrong reasons?
my body understands the mechanisms to create another life from love, but i don’t.
I fear that the taste of motherhood will resemble that of a defense mechanism.
•••
•Quotes: Alexander Pushkin/George Eliot/ Leo Tolstoy/ Chris Cleave/Clarice Lispector/ Anne Carson/ Kiki Nicole/ Richard Siken/ Lidia Yuknavitch/ Sylvia Plath/ Franz Kafka
•Original context: Sinligh
•Art reference:
1. A young beauty reclining on a bed By Enjolras Delphin. 2. Details of John William Godward's: Eurypyle (1921) 3. Details of John William Godward's: Eurypyle(1921) 4. Painting by Roberto Ferri (details). 5. The Table (1971-80) Antonio Lopez Garcia. 6. Painting by Alex Venezia. 7. Narzissin by Josef Fischnaller. 8. Painting by Valeria Duca. 9. Painting by Ricky Mujica.
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She [...] looked at him as the garden flowers look at us when we walk forth happily among them in the transcendent evening light.
George Eliot, Middlemarch, 1871
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Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love - that makes life and nature harmonise. The birds are consulting about their migrations, the trees are putting on the hectic or the pallid hues of decay, and begin to strew the ground, that one's very footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit. Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.
George Eliot in a letter to Miss Lewis, dated October 1, 1841; featured in George Eliot’s Life, as Related in her Letters and Journals
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Gossip is a sort of smoke that comes from the dirty tobacco-pipes of of those who diffuse it: it proves nothing but the bad taste of the smoker.
George Eliot, Daniel Deronda
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Fine old Christmas, with the snowy hair and ruddy face, had done his duty that year in the noblest fashion, and had set off his rich gifts of warmth and color with all the heightening contrast of frost and snow.
The Mill on the Floss, George Eliot
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