The face is just a few dozen square inches above the neck, covered with a layer of dough. Isn’t that right? I wanted to think so. I told myself a million times it was only a layer of skin, a surface. But now I’m not so sure. The face is the door to the soul. When the face is closed off, so too is the soul. Nobody is allowed inside. The soul is left to rot, reduced to ruins. It becomes the soul of a monster, rotten to the core. I feel as if I’ve been buried alive.
"Why did you come looking for me?" - Enemy (2013)
"We women are but the property of gentlemen". It came into my head that I have been blessed with freedom twice over. As a negro and as a woman. Or have I? Must not a lady marry even if she is financially secure? Or who is she without a husband of consequence? It seems silly…
Belle (2014), Amma Asante
I love you like a rose loves rainwater, like a leopard loves his partner in the jungle, like… I don’t know what like I love you. I love you.
Sexy Beast (2000)