It’s the heart that betrays us, makes us weep, and makes up to bury our friends when we should be marching ahead. It’s the heart that sickens us at night and makes us hate who we are. It’s the heart that sings old songs and brings memories of warm days and makes us waver at another mile.
Even the women without ambition wanted something more than to produce boys to be killed and girls to grow up to produce more boys. We were getting weary—Jeanette Winterson; The Passion