We say very little, for we do not need to. We are silent together, each in her own world, knowing the other is just at her back.
My father was often impatient during March, waiting for winter to end, the cold to ease, the sun to reappear. March was an unpredictable month, when it was never clear what might happen. Warm days raised hopes until ice and grey skies shut over the town again.
Yes, well, life is a folly. If you live long enough, nothing is surprising.
Say something worth the words.
It was not a house where secrets could be kept easily.
Over his shoulder I saw a star fall. It was me.
I had walked along that street all my life, but had never been so aware that my back was to my home.
I wanted to wear the mantle and the pearls. I wanted to know the man who painted her like that.
At first I could not meet his eyes. When I did it was like sitting close to a fire that suddenly blazes up.
I slowed my pace. Years of hauling water, wringing out clothes, scrubbing floors, emptying chamber pots, with no chance of beauty or color or light in my life, stretched before me like a landscape of flat land where, a long way off, the sea is visible but can never be reached.
Pieter would be pleased with the rest of the coins, the debt now settled. I would not have cost him anything. A maid came free.
There is a difference between Catholic and Protestant attitudes to painting,” he explained as he worked, “but it is not necessarily as great as you may think. Paintings may serve a spiritual purpose for Catholics, but remember too that Protestants see God everywhere, in everything. By painting everyday things-tables and chairs, bowls and pitchers, soldiers and maids-are they not celebrating God’s creation as well?
I felt as if my parents had pushed me into the street, that a deal had been made and I was being passed into the hands of a man. At least he is a good man, I thought, even if his hands are not as clean as they could be.
It seemed to me that the baker had an honest response to the painting. Van Ruijven tried too hard when he looked at paintings, with his honeyed words and studied expressions. He was too aware of having an audience to perform for, whereas the baker merely said what he thought.
But John Chapman told us he didnt eat meat cause he couldnt stand for somethin livin to be killed jest to keep him alive.
His parting would have been solemn but we were too busy to think much of it. We were weaving fourteen hours a day then, with hardly a moment for meals, and I was dizzy with the pattern of the tapestry in front of me even when I wasn’t weaving. I fell into bed each night and slept without moving until Madeleine woke me in the morning. There was little time left to think about a man’s departure. The night before Nicolas went the.
I have always admired most those who lead with their eyes, like Mary Anning, for they seem more aware of the world and its workings.
He stood there at the edge of the orchard looking like he would never be whole again.
For myself, it took only the early discovery of a golden ammonite, glittering on the beach between Lyme and Charmouth, for me to succumb to the seductive thrill of finding unexpected treasure.
I stood by the fire, everyone around me so cheerful, and thought what an odd creature I am – even I know that. Too much space and I’m frightened, too little and I’m frightened. There is indeed no comfortable place for me – I am too near the fire or too far away. Behind.