Death makes me hungry. Maybe it’s because I’ve been emptied; or maybe it’s the body’s way of seeing to it that I remain alive, continue to repeat its bedrock prayer: I am, I am. I am, still.
She had an idea, but it was the wrong idea. It was hardly even an idea, just a white idea balloon with no writing inside it.
She writes like an angel, it says of Laura on the back of one of the editions of The Blind Assassin. An American edition, as I recall, with gold scrollwork on the cover: they set a lot of store by angels in those parts. In point of fact angels don’t write much. They record sins and the names of the dammed and the saved, or they appear as disembodied hands and scribble warnings on walls. Or they deliver messages, few of which are good news: God be with you is not an unmixed blessing.
I admired her lack of compunction, the courage of her bad manners, the energy of simple rage. Throwing a bag of spaghetti had a simplicity to it, a recklessness, a careless grandeur. It got things over with. I was a long way, then, from being able to do anything like it myself.
There was always that shadowy twin, thin when i was fat, fat when i was thin, myself in silvery narrative...
Ours is a fall into greed: why do we think that everything on Earth belongs to us, while in reality we belong to Everything? We have betrayed the trust of the Animals, and defiled our sacred task of stewardship.
If anyone else told her to lower her voice, Roz would know what to do: scream louder.
Becka said that spelling was not reading. “Reading,” she said, “was when you could hear the words as if they were a song.
It was only a dream. It was only a larval poem. –.
Even guppies have their opacities.
That kind of love comes and goes and is hard to remember afterwards, like pain. You would look at the man one day and you would think, I loved you, and the tense would be past, and you would be filled with a sense of wonder, because it was such an amazing and precarious and dumb thing to have done;.
A breath would blow you away, they beam down at her silently. You wish, thinks Tony, smiling up. Many have blown. She.
He put his arms around me. We were both feeling miserable. How were we to know we were happy, even then? Because we at least had that: arms, around.
I’m training to be an Aunt,” I said. “I’m not really supposed to like anyone.” 49 My reading abilities progressed slowly and with many stumbles.
I am not being wasted. Why do I want?
Only fools, he said, were given to bragging about how much they could drink.
Jon smashes things, and glues the shards into place in the pattern of breakage. I can see the appeal.
All she wants is a miracle, because anything else is hopeless.
The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself.
Chemistry can be like magic. It can be merciless.