“It was more than a spider. It was every unknown terror in the world fused into wriggling, poison-jawed horror. It was every anxiety, insecurity, and fear in his life given a hideous, night-black form.”
“To look at the entire journey all at once was stupidity. You thought of it in segments; that was the only way.”
“Memory was such a worthless thing, really. Nothing it dealt with was attainable. It was concerned with phantom acts and feelings, with all that was uncapturable except in thought. It was without satisfaction. Mostly, it hurt…”
“Perhaps jungle life, despite physical danger, was a relaxing one. Surely it was free of the petty grievances, the disparate values of society. It was simple, devoid of artifice and ulcer-burning pressures.”
“But now, in the final hours, even hope had vanished. Yet he could smile. At a point without hope he had found contentment. He knew he had tried and there was nothing to be sorry for. And this was complete victory, because it was a victory over himself.”
“This, he knew, was courage, the truest, ultimate courage, because there was no one here to sympathize or praise him for it. What he felt was felt without the hope of commendation.”
“saying this to Patrick, “that he misses me. He was clearly discombobulated when he saw me, and he did see me. I am quite certain he knew it was me. But there was also delight. Before he had a chance to check his emotions, I saw delight.” As she speaks, Grace recognizes she still has loyalty; she still cares. This is her husband of over twenty years. Whatever betrayal has happened, whatever infidelities there have been, he is still her husband. She does not want to see him destroyed. They talk for a long time. About everything. And nothing. Hitting traffic in Stamford, Grace reluctantly says good-bye, turning off the highway and taking the back roads. Through Darien, the pretty water town of Rowayton, through Norwalk, Grace delighting in the gorgeous old homes. When she couldn’t get ahold of her by phone days ago, Grace went back to Anne, who arranged this meeting. Emily didn’t want to talk on the phone, she said, but they could meet; she would tell her everything. Past the churches, under the railway tracks, she turns into the pretty village of Southport and pulls up outside the Driftwood Diner. She knows who Emily must be as soon as she walks in, a pretty woman sitting at a table by herself, her face drawn and tired. “Emily?” She nods as Grace sits, orders a coffee, makes small talk,”
“Lust is when you want the person to make you feel good. Love is when you want to make the other person feel good.”
“The great thing about family, Mary mused, was that they showed up. When it really mattered, your family, be they blood or by choice, were always where you needed them to be, even though they had busy lives and jobs and children of their own.”
“Life is a performance, I thought. Perthaps the word "illusion" would have meant more or less the same thing, but to me "performance" seemed closed to the truth. Standing there in the midst of the crowd that evening, I felt this realization swirl dizzily through my body in a dazzling splendor of light, if only for an instant. Each one of us continues to carry the heart of each self we've ever been, at every stage along the way, and a chaos of everything good and rotten. And we have to carry this weight all alone, through each day that we live. We try to be as nice as we can to the people we love, but we alone support the weight of ourselves.”
“Whoever had said that appearances were deceiving was only partially right; they could also be deadly.”
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