SuperLibby
It’s a great advantage not to drink among hard-drinking people.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby. The story of my newish life in Austin.

"You believe that alcohol allows you to access who you really are. That’s not true. What you access when you drink is a temporary escape from your self-hatred and anxiety. It’s a short-cut you haven’t really earned, that doesn’t stick around for long. The boisterous, dancing, celebratory self after 2 or 3 drinks might be OK, but you never stop there, do you? It sounds to me like you’re incapable of stopping there. You believe that you’re owed more than that, that you have to grab more for yourself because no one else will. And soon the happy drinker is replaced by a sloppy, forgetful drunk."

Great explanation of why I needed to stop drinking.

I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong.
Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey.
Show a girl a pioneering hero—Sylvia Plath, Dorothy Parker, Frida Kahlo, Cleopatra, Boudicca, Joan of Arc—and you also, more often than not, show a girl a woman who was eventually crushed.
How to Be a Woman, Caitlin Moran.
I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar.
There is no reason why good cannot triumph as often as evil. The triumph of anything is a matter of organization. If there are such things as angels, I hope that they are organized along the lines of the Mafia.
Kurt Vonnegut, The Sirens of Titan.
Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option.
Nina Potts-Jeffries
It’s not time to worry yet.

Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird.

This will be my motto during the next few months.

But faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope.
Herman Melville, Moby-Dick.