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I think depression creates in me an urgent need to write, but I also believe that daily stress, and even the positive stress of intense happiness, can compel me to express myself through the written word.
Francesca Lia Block
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Francesca Lia Block
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: January 3
Editor
Novelist
Poet
Writer
LA
California
Also
Stress
Need
Express
Needs
Daily
Writing
Positive
Compel
Even
Written
Urgent
Believe
Word
Depression
Think
Happiness
Creates
Thinking
Write
Intense
More quotes by Francesca Lia Block
I believe we recover from loss by facing the loss, grieving, going deep inside ourselves (hopefully with a guide) and re-emerging to live and love again.
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Just like any woman,...we weave our stories out of our bodies. Some of us through our children, or our art some do it just by living. It's all the same.
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Maybe her own tears were the poison that made her grow.
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i could see the veins through your skin like a map to inside you. how could skin be that thin? i was so afraid you might drop and break. i stopped breathing so you wouldn't.
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I want him to see the flowers in my eyes and hear the songs in my hands.
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I'll be inside the one who holds you. And then I won't be.
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I will not eat cakes or cookies or food. I will be thin, thin, pure. I will be pure and empty. Weight dropping off. Ninety-nine... ninety-five... ninety-two... ninety. Just one more to eighty-nine. Where does it go? Where in the universe does it go?
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Pianos, unlike people, sing when you give them your every growl. They know how to dive into the pit of your stomach and harmonize with your roars when you’ve split yourself open. And when they see you, guts shining, brain pulsing, heart right there exposed in a rhythm that beats need need, need need, need need, pianos do not run. And so she plays.
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Pulling heads off Barbies, sticking them on the TV antenna and ruining the reception. But thats how witch babies are.
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If death is your lover, you don't got to be afraid ever that he will ever leave you
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She had changed him. The ice was in his eyes and in his heart, like he had predicted with that song, but now they were deep embedded there, all the pain of the world. Not pain to make you feel for somebody else but pain to make you stop feeling.
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She pushed the gardener away and called for them. In her sleep she had seen love. It was poisoning. It was possessing. Devouring. Or it was seven pairs of boots climbing up the stairs to find her.
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I wish I wasn’t a girl who needed so much but a little free creature that slept in deserts and ran on clouds and lived on lilies.
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Beauty loved him more than anything, her Beast boy, but, secretly, sometimes, she wished he would have remained a Beast.
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Once upon a time . . . What time are we upon and where do I belong?
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...It felt like they were telling each other secrets. Everything they said felt like that—whispered, tender, full of other meanings, like when you tell someone a dream or talk about your astrological signs as code for all the things you love about each other.
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Love is the worst earthquake there is. Can crush you to the thickness of your bones. Love can be like cancer sometimes. Terminal. It can make you vomit. It can make you want to cut it out. It can take you over against your will.
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What sexual preference do you hope she has?” “Happiness.” Isnt that cool?
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Welcome Beauty, banish fear.
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At least the girls in stories were alive before they died.
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