There are no Jack Kerouacs or Holden Caulfields for girls. Literary girls don’t take road-trips to find themselves; they take trips to find men.
"Great" books, as defined by the Western canon, didn’t contain female protagonists I could admire. In fact, they barely contained female protagonists at all.
I’d like to add this is frustratingly even more so the case for queer people. Currently reading an excellent, artistic, poetic SF book, ‘Slow River’, where the protagonist is casually a lesbian and nothing is made of it. Is it deemed a ‘classic’? Probably not. Established ‘culture’ has too many gatekeepers and closed-minded decision-makers on what is or isn’t worthy.
Trees are not delicate. You can do all sorts of things to a fully grown tree - drench it in acid rain and infest it with parasites, carve initials in its bark and split branch from trunk - and it will survive. It is not presence but absence that will kill a tree. Take away its sunshine and it will stretch vainly upward, groping, growing etiolated, spindly beyond belief, and die. Take away its water and its leaves wrinkle, become transparent, and fall.
I tilted the watering can into the pot of my ficus tree, watching the brown, granular soil darken and smooth out as it absorbed the water. I sprayed the leaves, wondering when the light green of the leaves grown in the summer, summer when I had left Spanner, had blended in with the seasoned, deeper green of all the others. And then I cried.