#sick

When I started writing I was a sick teenaged fuck inside who partly thought I was the new Marquis de Sade, a body doomed to communicate with Satan who was us- ing my sickness as his home away from home, and there’s your proof. ↗

— Dennis Cooper

#sickness #writing #communication

I'm always telling myself I don't have many feelings. Even when something does affect me I'm only moderately moved. I almost never cry. It's not that I'm stronger than the ones with teary eyes, I'm weaker. They have courage. When all you are is skin and bones, feelings are a brave thing. I'm more of a coward. The difference is minimal though, I just use my strength not to cry. When I do allow myself a feeling, I take the part that hurts and bandage it up with a story that doesn't cry, that doesn't dwell on homesickness. ↗

— Herta Müller

#feelings #homesickness #sadness #courage

Everybody that went away suffered a broken heart. "I'm coming back some day," they all wrote. But never did. The old life was too small to fit anymore. ↗

— Annie Proulx

#homesick #old-life #life

It would be wrong to refuse to face the fact that everything is fundamentally sick and sad. ↗

— Thomas Bernhard

#sadness #sickness #death

Sometimes there's nothing you can do. [...] Sometimes they don't have enough to fight with. ↗

— Tamora Pierce

#death #flick #helplessness #henna #illness

Done to death by slanderous tongue ↗

— William Shakespeare

#eulogy #insults-and-slander #death

When you live with a potentially life-threatening condition you get used to the thought of dying. You accept it, you push on. The thing that scared me was the picture of dying slowly and painfully, the loss of independence and identity to illness. ↗

— Josh Lanyon

#dying #fear #sickness #death

Our existence comes with Death. And it comes with suffering, death alone is not enough and pleasure have consequences. wicked and fucked. love comes with hurting. And having means losing. ↗

— Ira N. Barin

#death-and-dying #death-and-love #death-and-sickness #hurting #losing

Bacon's portraits are an interrogation on the limits of the self. Up to what degree of distortion does an individual still remain himself? To what degree of distortion does a beloved person still remain a beloved person? For how long does a cherished face growing remote through illness, through madness, through hatred, through death still remain recognizable? Where is the border beyond which a self ceases to be a self? ↗

— Milan Kundera

#the-self #death

It doesn't seem right that someone like that would get sick and die.' [He] countered, 'Why shouldn't it be right? It's what happens. ↗

— Jan Elizabeth Watson

#happens #sickness #death