August 2012
271 posts
“About here, she thought, dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship had sunk, and she muttered, dreamily half asleep, how we perished, each alone.” ― Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse
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Furious Love: Elizabeth and Richard: In 'A Christmas Story', Burton's autobiographical short story, he described his sister... →
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When my mother had died, she, my sister, had become my mother….I was immensely proud of her. I shone in the reflection of her green-eyed, black-haired, gypsy beauty…She was naive to the point of saintliness, and wept a lot at the misery of others. She felt all tragedies except her own. I had read…
