I haven’t missed this feeling at all lately, and like a flash it’s back and I forget what it’s like to be fully content with myself, while lowering my expectations for others when I realize they’ll never be met.
Let’s not talk about how I am. It’s a subject I know too much about to want to think about anymore.
You think it’s cool to hate things. And it’s not. It’s boring. Talk about what you love and keep quiet about what you don’t.
I think about your thighs,” she wrote in the second letter, “and the warm, moist smell of your skin in the morning, and the tiny eyelash in each corner of your eye that I always notice when you first roll over to look at me. I don’t know why you are better and more beautiful than anybody else. I don’t know why your body is something I can’t stop thinking about, why those little flaws and ridges on your back are lovely to me or why the pale soft bottoms of your New Jersey feet that always wore shoes are more poignant than any other feet, but they are. I thought I would have more time to chart your body, to map its poles, its contours and terrains, its inner regions, both temperate and torrid - a whole topography of skin and muscle and bone. I didn’t tell you, but I imagined a lifetime as your cartographer, years of exploration and discovery that would keep changing the look of my map. It would always need to be redrawn and reconfigured to keep up with you. I’m sure I’ve missed things, Bill, or forgotten them, because half the time I’ve been wandering around your body blind drunk with happiness. There are still places I haven’t seen.
― Siri Hustvedt, What I Loved
This was honestly the best book I’ve ever read in my life. Pretty much changed my view on art and love.
You made me feel at home in a home I never lived in.
The blue in my veins can’t compare to the sky outside, because all it holds in it’s heart is a cold grey and I’m tired of painting over the mistakes I’ve made trying to find the right shade.