A place for those who study English literature to express their discontent in everything from the misuse of apostrophes to lack of income. Some say we're pretentious asshats. They may be right. But at least we're well-read.
If I’d let myself love him, I’d end by hating him. He only excited me. But that wasn’t enough. Even in in the ecstasy of our kisses, I knew he was not my kind. I looked at the books on my table that had stared at me like enemies a little while before. They were again the life of my life. Nothing was so beautiful as to learn to know, to master by the sheer force of my will even the dead squares and triangles of geometry. I seized my books and hugged them to my breast as though they were living things.
Anzia Yezierska, Bread Givers
Anzia, how do you know exactly what I’m going through right now?
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