Cecily: I have created whole characters out of hyperbolic metaphor, and written of kaleidoscopes of butterflies without the need for any metaphor at all.
Author: thedailymails
Two friends, on vernacular.
Vinnie: You’re gay (that’s the expression Americans use when they cannot comprehend something).
Cecily: You’re straight (that’s the expression we queens use when we know exactly how to describe somebody).
Two friends, on modern romance.
Nigel: I am not sure flaneurs or flaneuses would ever meet on Tinder.
Cecily: Don’t be so pretentious that you can’t be open to modern first meetings and classically romantic evolutions thereafter.
Cecily, on beauty.
Cecily: The aim of beauty is to keep the populace hypnotised, (hence desperate to be led to safety), by the menacing wit of Wintours and other robots, manufactured upon polished skin and cigarettes. This world, all of it imaginary, is what we like best, for it is a reincarnation of the picture books we suckled at in our youth. In a world where the wild things are real, it’s all the better to see them cloaked in glitter.
Alexander, on his mother.
Alexander: My mother is constantly one glass of Prosecco away from buying seventeen cats.
Two creatives, on writing.
Xavier: I’m writing a play and I don’t like it yet.
Cecily: I’m writing a life, and I’m starting to dread the next plot twist.
Alexander, on the Côte d’Azur.
Alexander: I doubt anyone with an IQ that qualifies them as even marginally better than brain dead could find happiness in the Côte d’Azur.
Two friends, on loving once.
Nino: I should not have hesitated with you.
Cecily: We weren’t right to be together forever. You know it. But we will always be something special. You know that too.
Nino: What do you think could have been wrong?
Cecily: We’re maybe both butterflies. And we seek plants to settle with. Not other butterflies.
Cecily, a Christmas story.
Cecily: I wanted a toy unicorn. I had an inside joke about one with my lover Yves, and I wanted to give the unicorn to him for Christmas. I announced my desire to find one rather publicly. Jonathan loved me so much he haunted every shop in Paris on Christmas Eve to find me that unicorn. He didn’t know why I wanted it, just that he could give me something I wanted, and that he could make me smile.
He found that unicorn and bought it for me for Christmas. It showed up under my tree all glittering and shining via beautiful guilt-laced adoration. And now I have it. And it was always intended for Yves.
Charles, to Cecily.
Charles: You are like one of Ayn Rand’s protagonists: a self-interested person that must be unsentimental toward those that rely on you. They need you for their joy. You produce, they consume. Don’t forget that.
thedailymails 