I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page.
Why the hell shouldn’t I run away with the circus?
Gorillas are in danger of being wiped out by the Ebola virus. I feel like we have limited time to get to know them and understand them and they’re going to disappear – that’s terrifically sad. Wouldn’t it be great if we could stop that?
You do right by me, I’ll show you a life most suckers can’t even dream of.
Don’t want to get tipsy and break a hip.
I think there is just a vein of humanity that really loves animals and really loves to read about them.
You work hard on a book and throw it out there and then it’s beyond your control.
I have to convince myself that this is not a pointless life, even the body is telling me so.
I am further back, surrounded on all sides by wailing men, their faces shiny with tears. Uncle Al promised three dollars and a bottle of Canadian whiskey to the man who puts on the best show. You’ve never seen such grief – even the dogs were howling.
I strain to hear, but my old ears, for all their obscene hugeness, pick up nothing but snippets:.
So what if I’m ninety-three? So what if I’m ancient and cranky and my body’s a wreck? If they’re willing to accept me and my guilty conscience, why the hell shouldn’t I run away with the circus?
Juliet is one of those rare novels that has it all: lush prose, tightly intertwined parallel narratives, intrigue, and historical detail all set against a backdrop of looming danger. Anne Fortier casts a new light on one of history’s greatest stories of passion. I was swept away.
I am ninety. Or ninety-three. One or the other.
I just think I’m better equipped to make a study of human personality than trying to get into the mind of animals.
I was always searching, always seeking the next big thing, because that was the thing that was going to make everything all right again. And while I was working toward it, it gave me something to think about other than that thing I couldn’t put my finger on. But it always came back.
When I first submerged my feet into frigid water, they hurt so badly I yanked them out again. I persisted, dunking them for longer and longer periods, until the cold finally blistered.
I tend not to think about the reading public at all, or the business, when I’m writing.
I scan the room. Catherine is writing quickly, her light brown hair falling over her face. She is left-handed, and because she writes in pencil her left arm is silver from wrist to elbow.
It’s as though I’ve been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here.
What else do I have to offer? Nothing happens to me anymore. That’s the reality of getting old, and I guess that’s really the crux of the matter. I’m not ready to be old yet.