Men tell us that they too are oppressed. They tell us that they are often in their individual lives victimized by women — by mothers, wives, and “girlfriends”. They tell us that women provoke acts of violence through our carnality, or malice, or avarice, or vanity, or stupidity. They tell us that their violence originates in us and that we are responsible for it. They tell us that their lives are full of pain, and that we are its source. They tell us that as mothers we injure them irreparably, as wives we castrate them, as lovers we steal from them semen, youth, and manhood — and never, never, as mothers, wives, or lovers do we ever give them enough.
Andrea Dworkin (via radfeminist)
But as an adult, I also have a very different view of her life and death. This past February, on the anniversary of her suicide at age 30, I realized several things: I was older than her when she died, and oh, how we’ll never know what she could have produced. I feel so young, like my life is still ahead of me, and it made me so sad that her depression, that insidious illness, killed her. There is no romanticizing about her life now – her marriage was tumultuous and troubled, toward the end she was struggling in nearly every way possible, and the end must have been very, very bleak. She could be selfish and vengeful. Simply put, she was human, like the rest of us. That can be very hard to remember when you’re a teenager and idolizing writers that touch your bloody, tender heart.
When you feel perpetually unmotivated, you start questioning your existence in an unhealthy way; everything becomes a pseudo intellectual question you have no interest in responding whatsoever. This whole process becomes your very skin and it does not merely affect you; it actually defines you. So, you see yourself as a shadowy figure unworthy of developing interest, unworthy of wondering about the world - profoundly unworthy in every sense and deeply absent in your very presence.
Ingmar Bergman (via somebody-else)