Almost all of us have been lured into a state of stupor. Especially one small group of older girls…They were the clique of the experienced; they had already given themselves to the world…The first round was over and the next rounds buzzed like halos round their golden heads.
Fleur Jaeggy, Sweet Days of Discipline (via theperfumemaker)
Showing up late with coffee
Growing up, I didn’t read novels by women. It’s not that I didn’t want to. It’s almost like I didn’t think that I needed to or, I guess, I didn’t know that I needed to. I was perfectly happy in a world contained by men. I adopted the posture of the brooding male as my own. I was Salinger, I was Kerouac, I was any male protagonist in a novel that one of my boyfriends recommended. I didn’t know that there was a specific female sadness so I was content with relating to a generalized one. And in a way, reading these novels was less of a way to relate and more of a way to learn how to be the type of girl that these male novelists liked. One of my first ambitions wasn’t to be a writer – it was to be a writer’s muse.
Gabby Bess, in Dazed (via electric-cereal)