I liked the idea of living in a city - any city, especially a strange one - liked the thought of traffic and crowds, of working in a bookstore, waiting tables in a coffee shop, who knew what kind of odd, solitary life I might slip into? Meals alone, walking the dogs in the evening; and nobody knowing who I was.
Donna Tartt, The Secret History (via pre-raphaelites)
She was more lonely than the caravan crossing the desert; she was infinitely more mysterious, moving by her own power and sustained by her own resources. The sea might give her death or some unexampled joy, and none would know of it.
Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out (via pre-raphaelites)
that awesome moment when you finished reading a really good book and you see it at a store then you cunningly smile at it as if you had an affair with it.