Kissing Tolstoy

What’s wrong with being vulnerable? With trusting another person to see who you are and love you for it.”

didn’t say that. I merely argue that this post-modern individualism is harmful, that we—Western society—have become lazy in our dependencies and relationships. To say, ‘Don’t attempt to love another until you know what it is to love yourself,’ is imbecilic. We, humans, must be loved first to know how to love in return. This is why we are given families, ideally parents, who will love us, teach us that we are worthwhile, worthy of love and respect, provide a mirror, a reflection of our worth. We must know what love is, what it looks like, in order to give it to another.”

If we are not taught how to love, or that we should, then how can we love ourselves? It would be like expecting an infant to fry an egg.”

“Don’t worry, the world will always need art, and artists, and literature. Just like it will always need industry and medicine. One is not more or less important than the other, at least I don’t think so. Why do we have art? To make life beautiful, to understand each other. And why do we have science? To make life easier.”

I want to make money. I want to have a job where I can support myself and my reading habit.

“Tell me something.”

“Ask me anything.”

“That’s a lot of books.” I tried not to salivate, though my fingers itched to touch them, pet their spines and smell their pages

Funny how such a simple, affectionate display could twist me into such devastating and beautiful knots.

I might enjoy reading about wretchedness and epically tragic love stories, but I have no desire to live one.

If he can’t see how fucking awesome you are, if he can’t put himself on the line for you and go all in, pursue you like you deserve to be pursued, then—really—is he worth risking your heart? No. He’s not. That makes him not your kind of nice.”