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Quote by Ella Maise

“You're the only women I want to go to sleep holding on to and wake up next to, Rose Hawthorne. I will never leave you. I will will never forget you.”

Quote by Ella Maise

Book:Marriage for One
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Marriage for One

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Ella Maise

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“Taking her tiny hand into both of mine, I lift it to my chest, placing it right over my racing heart. “You feel that?” I rasp, swallowing hard. Her head bobs. “That’s yours. It’s always been. So, the next time you try to convince yourself that you know what’s best for me, I want you to remember what you feel when we’re together.” I touch the pads of my first two fingers to her neck, feeling her pulse flutter against my skin. “I feel it, too.”

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“It took me years to learn to sit at my desk for more than two minutes at a time, to put up with the solitude and the terror of failure, and the godawful silence and the white paper. And now that I can take it . . . now that I can finally do it . . . I'm really raring to go. I was in my study writing. I was learning how to go down into myself and salvage bits and pieces of the past. I was learning how to sneak up on the unconscious and how to catch my seemingly random thoughts and fantasies. By closing me out of his world, Bennett had opened all sorts of worlds inside my own head. Gradually I began to realize that none of the subjects I wrote poems about engaged my deepest feelings, that there was a great chasm between what I cared about and what I wrote about. Why? What was I afraid of? Myself, most of all, it seemed. "Freedom is an illusion," Bennett would have said and, in a way, I too would have agreed. Sanity, moderation, hard work, stability . . . I believed in them too. But what was that other voice inside of me which kept urging me on toward zipless fucks, and speeding cars and endless wet kisses and guts full of danger? What was that other voice which kept calling me coward! and egging me on to burn my bridges, to swallow the poison in one gulp instead of drop by drop, to go down into the bottom of my fear and see if I could pull myself up? Was it a voice? Or was it a thump? Something even more primitive than speech. A kind of pounding in my gut which I had nicknamed my "hunger-thump." It was as if my stomach thought of itself as a heart. And no matter how I filled it—with men, with books, with food—it refused to be still. Unfillable—that's what I was. Nymphomania of the brain. Starvation of the heart.”

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