Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.
Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a pierce of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I’ll none: Adam’s sons are my brethren; and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.”
“I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia…. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any more by giving myself away like this — But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defenses. And I don’t really resent it.”—http://www.stylist.co.uk/people/historys-most-powerful-and-poignant-love-letters
"When I think back I don’t dwell on eating tinned tuna for dinner, three pound shoes that fell apart in the rain or flatmates that turned the heating off in winter to save money. I’ll laugh when I think of cutting my fringe in the bathroom sink before work to save money, forget how homesick and lonely I felt, or how I never mastered the ability to dress for cold weather. Nor do I dwell on the initial temp jobs in nameless city offices, the relentless job search and moving flats in the rain because I couldn’t afford a cab. I won’t think about the time I sat on the side of the road with all my possessions stuffed in plastic Poundland carrier bags or the night I got so lost in Oxford Circus, it took me three hours to get home.
I remember how I breezed through the Tube barriers with a subtle tap of my Oyster. Learnt how to weave through heaving crowds of people. Read the Evening Standard in a packed Tube carriage by folding it into an expert-sized section. Mastered applying makeup on the 393 to Highbury and Islington, careful to pause at the right moment for speed bumps. How my walking pace reached record speed, my tolerance for dawdling tourists on Regent Street became non-existent. I reminisce complaining about the weather, avoiding eye contact while commuting, drinking endless cups of tea and knowing the best place for a kebab in east London. I finally know how to pronounce that sweet name ‘Haribo’ and to deftly avoid piles of vomit on the footpath when walking home….
….You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart will always be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place.”
“Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I’m growing old, but add
Jenny kissed me.”—Leigh Hunt, by way of my friend Richard
“And when I walk around these shit bits – taking stock of the massive African vegetables, the Hasidic Jewish hat shops and the gorgeous proper kebabs – I remember an old feeling, the feeling that the whole world in all its messy beauty is crammed into London’s bottleneck streets, all that kaleidoscopic complexity and the collisions that result, and I remember what it was I loved about the East End in the first place – a feeling I miss, and occasionally shudder at the thought of.”—Michael Smith on East London http://www.vice.com/en_uk/read/michael-smith-shoreditch-east-end-decline-nightlife-dougie-wallace-808?utm_source=vicefbuk
Well it looks like the road to heaven
But it feels like the road to hell
When I knew which side my bread was buttered
I took the knife as well
Posing for another picture
Everybody’s got to sell
But when you shake your ass
They notice fast
And some mistakes were built to last