Stella Young Quotes

I miss the Stella girls telling me what I am. That I'm sweet and placid and accommodating and loyal and nonthreatening and good to have around. And Mia. I want her to say, "Frankie, you're silly, you're lazy, you're talented, you're passionate, you're restrained, you're blossoming, you're contrary." I want to be an adjective again. But I'm a noun. A nothing. A nobody. A no one.

What does ‘I love you’ even mean? It’s weird how different three words can feel. I mean, I’ve said it before but it’s never felt so… big, you know? I’m not sure it meant the same thing then. Like, I was too young to get it. Is that insane? You think I’m insane. But I’m not. I’m just… new to this, I think. Honestly, I think I’m new to this.” “I know you’re saying something profound, but it’s hard to focus when your tits are out.

Richard had realized, not that Elfine was beautiful, but that he loved Elfine. (Young men frequently need this fact pointing out to them, as Flora knew by observing the antics of her friends.)

The word 'special', as it is applied to disability, too often means 'a bit shit'.

We are a society that treats people with disabilities with condescension and pity, not dignity and respect.

You see, there is a major downfall to living in a tourist town. You guessed it, the constant turnover of new people. You cannot really connect with anyone because no one is ever here for more than two weeks every year, if they comeback at all. The intruders never thought about what happens once they leave. ~ Stella

I am not here to inspire you. I am here to tell you that we have been lied to about disability. Yeah, we've been sold the lie that disability is a Bad Thing, capital B, capital T. It's a bad thing, and to live with a disability makes you exceptional. It's not a bad thing, and it doesn't make you exceptional.

For lots of us, disabled people are not our teachers or our doctors or our manicurists. We're not real people. We are there to inspire. And in fact, I am sitting on this stage looking like I do in this wheelchair, and you are probably kind of expecting me to inspire you.

His young man's limbs, sleek in their dark male pride, seemed to disdain the covering offered them by the brief shorts and striped jersey. His body might have been naked, like his full, muscled throat, which rose, round and proud as the male organ of a flower, from the neck of his sweater.

The world breaks little girls. It stomps out our will, our joy, our curiosity—and replaces them with disdain, cynicism, and the need to fit into neat and tiny boxes. I learned that young, in kindergarten, when the other kids called Stella a show-off for raising her hand during class, or when the boys in first grade said I was bossy for leading a reading circle. When Stella and I would overhear the other moms at the Elite Youth Runner’s Club: The Steckler sisters are just a little much. That’s how we were described while the boys were sprinting around the playground kicking and screaming, breaking and biting. The world doesn’t celebrate girls who take up space, who demand to be heard, who are just a little much.

Thank you Jonah." He lowers his head at the break in my voice. I ignore the moisture in his eyes and pretend that mine don't sting. "For what?" he whispers. " For showing me that people can change. Even if it is one person out of a million.

When you have CF, you sort of get used to the idea of dying young. - Stella Grant

She was too young to look this tired, but she must be, fighting all the time. Stella never fought. She always gave in. She was a coward that way.

She stared up at the ceiling, suddenly exhausted. She was too young to look this tired, but she must be, fighting all the time. Stella never fought. She always gave in. She was a coward that way.

03:11 And in the past few years, we've been able to propagate this lie even further via social media. You may have seen images like this one: "The only disability in life is a bad attitude." Or this one: "Your excuse is invalid." Indeed. Or this one: "Before you quit, try!" These are just a couple of examples, but there are a lot of these images out there. You know, you might have seen the one, the little girl with no hands drawing a picture with a pencil held in her mouth. You might have seen a child running on carbon fiber prosthetic legs. And these images, there are lots of them out there, they are what we call inspiration porn. (Laughter) And I use the term porn deliberately, because they objectify one group of people for the benefit of another group of people. So in this case, we're objectifying disabled people for the benefit of nondisabled people. The purpose of these images is to inspire you, to motivate you, so that we can look at them and think, "Well, however bad my life is, it could be worse. I could be that person." But what if you are that person?

Tonight, no one will rage and cry: "My Kingdom for a horse!" No ghost will come to haunt the battlements of a castle in the kingdom of Denmark where, apparently something is rotten. Nor will anyone wring her hands and murmur: "Leave, I do not despise you." Three still young women will not retreat to a dacha whispering the name of Moscow, their beloved, their lost hope. No sister will await the return of her brother to avenge the death of their father, no son will be forced to avenge an affront to his father, no mother will kill her three children to take revenge on their father. And no husband will see his doll-like wife leave him out of contempt. No one will turn into a rhinoceros. Maids will not plot to assassinate their mistress, after denouncing her lover and having him jailed. No one will fret about "the rain in Spain!" No one will emerge from a garbage pail to tell an absurd story. Italian families will not leave for the seashore. No soldier will return from World War II and bang on his father's bedroom dor protesting the presence of a new wife in his mother's bed. No evanescent blode will drown. No Spanish nobleman will seduce a thousand and three women, nor will an entire family of Spanish women writhe beneath the heel of the fierce Bernarda Alba. You won't see a brute of a man rip his sweat-drenched T-shirt, shouting: "Stella! Stella!" and his sister-in-law will not be doomed the minute she steps off the streetcar named Desire. Nor will you see a stepmother pine away for her new husband's youngest son. The plague will not descend upon the city of Thebes, and the Trojan War will not take place. No king will be betrayed by his ungrateful daughters. There will be no duels, no poisonings, no wracking coughs. No one will die, or, if someone must die, it will become a comic scene. No, there will be none of the usual theatrics. What you will see tonight is a very simple woman, a woman who will simply talk...

Why can’t you just be yourself?” Stella asked once. “Maybe I don’t know who that is,” her daughter shot back. And Stella understood, she did. That was the thrill of youth, the idea that you could be anyone. That was what had captured her in the charm shop, all those years ago. Then adulthood came, your choices solidifying, and you realize that everything you are had been set in motion years before. The rest was aftermath. So she understood why her daughter was searching for a self, and she even blamed herself for it.

Succede tutto per una ragione. È così che dice la gente. [...] Nessuno vuole credere che la vita proceda a caso. [...] È meglio vedere la vita com'è, non come vorremmo che fosse. Le cose non accadono per una ragione. Accadono e basta.” ― Nicola Yoon, Il sole è anche una stella

No – for themselves. They were all drunkards, but Anne was the worst of the lot. Branwell, who adored her, used to pretend to get drunk at the Black Bull in order to get gin for Anne. The landlord wouldn’t have let him have it if Branwell hadn’t built up – with what devotion, only God knows – that false reputation as a brilliant, reckless, idle drunkard. The landlord was proud to have young Mr Brontë in his tavern; it attracted custom to the place, and Branwell could get gin for Anne on tick – as much as Anne wanted. Secretly, he worked twelve hours a day writing “Shirley”, and “Villette” – and, of course, “Wuthering Heights”. I’ve proved all this by evidence from the three letters to old Mrs Prunty.

The pure menace radiating from my younger sister is undeniable. She can hate me, but I need her to know that she has something that Stella never did: a place to fall. "And if he hurts you or if anyone hurts you...you have me." It feels unnatural, but I hug my sister. Her arms are limp at her sides, but she doesn't push me away. "Remember, you have me," I repeat.

The need for social interaction ... is very much a part of why women shop. All our interviewees commented at some point that social interaction was part of the shopping experience. Many people now live alone in 'dormitory' suburbs, are often working from home or in isolated jobs, may be home with young children or part of the aging population of retiring baby boomers. All these groups need social connection, and shopping strips and malls provide many opportunities for reliable, safe and interesting social connections.

It's kind of getting on my nerves if you want the truth, listening to her go on and on about how she can't believe she's fallen in love with this young man from Jamaica that she met on vacation, but her problem is that she is afraid of marriage because of what she's seen it do to love, how much you actually lose, for instance, like spontaneity: everything seems to have to be planned out in advance, and she does not always want to know what is going to happen next; and then how about passion: it gets pushed out of the way or maybe even shoved over and down to the bottom of the list of needs to that list of wants and is now considered superfluous, and where there used to be joy and laughter and warm smiles all of a sudden they cross over the picket line and everybody's pissed about something stressed out every day and so she feels that marriage is just so misrepresented, so overrated and not at all redeeming and plus it changes people and she does not want to be changed.

Call Stella 'Trash Can Girl' again and I'll beat the h--- out of you. In fact, call her or anyone else anything ever again and I'll do the same. I'm done saying nothing. I'm done letting you treat people like crap. Do you hear me?

Stella liked power, and her charisma was one of the greatest powers available to her, one of the few powers a young woman in southern Italy could possible wield in these years between the wars.

Stella couldn’t believe this was happening. Gavin and Holden were both in her bed and just as desperate for her as she was for them. Her life had morphed into a cross between a romance novel and a porno. If she was dreaming, she didn’t ever want to wake up.

Being with Holden and Gavin was driving Stella mad. Mad with desire when she was with them; mad with impatience when they were apart. In their arms, she felt beautiful and desirable—two things she hadn’t experienced nearly enough in her lifetime. They reminded her that there was more to being a woman than complicated beauty regimens and menstrual cycles.

Stella Cameron, New York Times bestselling author “The Girl Who Stayed defies type. Crosby’s tale is honest and sen- sitive, eerie and tragic. It’s a homecoming tale of a past ever with us and irrevocably lost forever. A haunting vision of that chasm between life and death we call ‘missing.’” – Pamela Morsi, bestselling author of Simple Jess “An intense, mesmerizing Southern drama about a young woman who returns to her coastal home to put to rest the haunting ghost of her sister’s tragic past. Told in the rich, lyrical style of Siddons and Conroy, The Girl Who Stayed is a woman’s story of discovery and acceptance, redefined by Tanya Anne Crosby’s dramatic storytelling, sharp characters, and well-defined plot. A must read for any woman who believes she can never go back home. Fabulous, rich and evocative!” – New York Times bestselling author Jill Barnett “Crosby tugs heartstrings in a spellbinding story of a woman trying to move beyond her past.” – New York Times bestselling

It was in his high school music class that he first became acquainted with a battered caramel-colored Stella Parlor. When Harlan raked his fingers over the six strings, his entire body vibrated. He'd never thought of himself as incomplete - one half of something he could name - but there it was, the very thing that had been missing from his young life.

If young children are frequently exposed to books containing images of people who do not look like them, or resources in the home corner which do not reflect their culture (cooking utensils, dressing-up clothes.... food), then they will come to believe that their attributes are of little value - this will have a negative impact on their racial identity. All children need to see positive images of people who look like them to enable them to think that they too can be successful and this is especially important for children who are racially minoritised. -Dr Stella Louis

Nigel half-smiled. How Stella's eyes sparkled in the firelight! "I heard you play the violin very well." "I play a few tunes." Stella Chapman's voice tailed off, her red hair fell forward, screening her face. "And you?" Billy said, diverting attention to the sandy-haired questioner. "What do you plan to do with the rest of your life?" Nigel went quiet. "Anything, I guess." He threw out his arms, his palms facing upward. How would they understand? Only he had lived his life.

Now, don’t laugh!” the wolf grinned, showing a fine set of wolf-like gnashers. “I’m still young at heart, and who doesn’t enjoy a fairytale, eh?” The children exchanged a glance. Billy knotted his eyebrows, and said, “So, Grandma! Tell us our mom’s name!” “Well, now,” said the wolf. “That’d be Ariana!” “Correct!” Billy said, unsmiling. He imagined he was Mr. Brindley from his senior school. “And how about my birthday?” whispered Stella, wide-eyed. “Now then, my pretty little Sagittarius. Let me see!

...not that I ought to grumble. I have money of my own, a luxurious home in excruciating taste, and all the clothes I want. All that is lacking is liberty, an aim to work for, and the conviction that my life is worth living. I am a most fortunate young woman.

a woman in late middle age is the most neutral figure of all, Stella discovered. She poses no sexual threat nor challenge. For young men, she is of so little interest as to be effectively invisible. For women younger than herself, she is a comforting reminder that they have not themselves got that far yet, thanks be. For those around her own age, she is a reassurance: we are not alone. Accordingly all three groups are reasonably well disposed, the defences are down, an overture will be accepted with equanimity and in some quarters enthusiasm.

Young slut gets raped. Young slut gets what she deserves. Ja, met mijn penis geef ik je straf omdat je geil bent. Met dat worstje tussen mijn benen ben ik oppermachtig. Omdat ik sterker ben dan jij maak ik je dood. Ik verdien een lintje. Lekker op mijn harige borst kloppen omdat ik op kevers kan trappen. Ik swaffel tulpen en trek hun blaadjes eruit. Vuile bloem krijgt wat ze verdient. Knak de steel en kom op de stamper. Oppermachtig ben ik. Vliegen sla ik dood met een elektrisch racket. Ik ben een bad ass motherfucker. Nu mag ik een medaille en al je geld.

A young man held a young woman in his arms, her head leaned to one side, her eyes empty and still. He was shadowed, but I saw that the figure was kissing the girl's neck. No that wasn't it. As I moved closer I saw what it was. She was unmoving, a statue, while he sucked on her bleeding neck. I was cold with fear, yet I moved closer ... mesmerised

And that quote, “The only disability in life is a bad attitude,” the reason that that’s bullshit is because it’s just not true, because of the social model of disability. No amount of smiling at a flight of stairs has ever made it turn into a ramp. Never. Smiling at a television screen isn’t going to make closed captions appear for people who are deaf. No amount of standing in the middle of a bookshop and radiating a positive attitude is going to turn all those books into braille. It’s just not going to happen.