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She began to feel like the plastic doll she had been named after, without even a hole where her mouth was supposed to be.
Francesca Lia Block
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Francesca Lia Block
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: January 3
Editor
Novelist
Poet
Writer
LA
California
Feel
Plastic
Feels
Emptiness
Even
Holes
Numbness
Like
Mouth
Doll
Began
Detachment
Mouths
Dolls
Supposed
Named
Without
Hole
More quotes by Francesca Lia Block
No matter how bad things get, you can always see the beauty in them. The worse things get, the more you have to make yourself see the magic in order to survive.
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Stories are like genies...They can carry us into and though our sorrows. Sometimes they burn, sometimes they dance, sometimes they weep, sometimes they sing. Like genies, everyone has one. Like genies, sometimes we forget that we do. Our stories can set us free...When we set them free.
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What happens to the rest of something when you smash its heart?
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Choose to believe in your own myth your own glamour your own spell a young woman who does this (even if she is just pretending) has everything.
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I wanted to die, then. I wanted to destroy the body I was trapped in, become what she was, no matter what it took. No matter how much mutilation or pain. But he looked away, at me. He pulled my face down and pressed my lips against his like he was almost trying to suffocate us both.
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Maybe her own tears were the poison that made her grow.
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When they first kiss, there on the beach, they will kneel at the edge of the Pacific and say a prayer of thanks, sending all the stories of love inside them out in a fleet of bottles all across the oceans of the world.
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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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I'll be inside the one who holds you. And then I won't be.
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Maybe any love we ever have is an angel in whatever form.
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But be careful sand is already broken but glass breaks. The shoes are for dancing, not running away.
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I think that poetry is perfect for women raising children, with just bits of time and such need to connect to other women out of the isolation of motherhood.
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Everything is an illusion that is the whole thing about it - illusion, immitation, a mirage. It makes me too sad. Its having like a good dream, you know you are going to wake up.
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Everything was fine, but Weetzie wanted a baby. “How could you want one?” My Secret Agent Lover Man said. “There are way too many babies. And diseases. And nuclear accidents. And crazy psychos. We cant have a baby,” he said.
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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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...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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I didn't tell him that what I was most scared of, most haunted by, was something I didn't understand and could never run away from. It was myself.
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Our stories can set us free. When we set them free.
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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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Sometimes a wild horse needs to feel that his rider is just a little bit wilder.
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