"I’m rubbing the foil between my thumb and forefinger feeling the squish of the rubber inside imagining him rolling one of these on himself just before he rolls onto some girl whose face is shadowy to me but whose legs are long, slim and tanned. I feel sick with jealousy–repulsed, but also excited." ― Kirsty Eagar, Night Beach

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"This was his favorite time of day, reading to his heart's content before going to sleep. When he tired of reading, he would fall asleep." ― Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

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"These days I just can’t seem to say what I mean. I just can’t. Every time I try to say something, it misses the point. Either that or I end up saying the opposite of what I mean. The more I try to get it right the more mixed up it gets. Sometimes I can’t even remember what I was trying to say in the first place. It’s like my body’s split in two and one of me is chasing the other me around a big pillar. We’re running circles around it. The other me has the right words, but I can never catch her." — Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

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"She wanted a book to take her places she couldn't get to herself." ― Jeffrey Eugenides, The Marriage Plot

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"(...) preferi dormir, que é um modo interino de morrer." ― Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas

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"When I look at my room, I see a girl who loves books." ― John Green, Looking for Alaska

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"The state of periphescence, however, is well known. It denotes the first fever of human pair bonding. It causes giddiness, elation, a tickling on the chest wall, the urge to climb a balcony on the rope of the beloved’s hair. Periphescence denotes the initial drugged and happy bedtime where you sniff your lover like a scented poppy for hours running." ― Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex

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"I can’t stand THE DEPRESSED. It’s like a job, it’s the only thing they work hard at. Oh good my depression is very well today. Oh good today I have another mysterious symptom and I will have another one tomorrow. The DEPRESSED are full of hate and bile and when they are not having panic attacks they are writing poems. What do they want their poems to DO?" ― Deborah Levy, Swimming Home

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