“This is our condition . We do not solve problems. We replace them with other problems.”
“…wondering, not for the first time, if there was a kind of dark bliss built into dementia: an immunity from death and abandonment, a way of fixing a point in time so that nothing can change, nothing can be rewritten, no one can leave.”
“But now . . . he was not yet at the age, like his father, when life shifts to past tense, when what is becomes what was and all the other verbs defining your existence go slumping into the preterite, crusted with apophonic alternations (I sing calcifying into I sang), and you can do nothing but marvel or wince at the irredeemable, irreversible arc of it—not yet. On this November night he was fifty-four years old. By no means, he told himself, was he beyond the future tense. But he could feel the past tense gaining on him, like the cold seeping into his back and dusting his face. He licked it off his lips and stood up. He had work to do.”
“But then he decided it wasn’t an irony, it was merely the broken gears of time, or the way life can feed you when you’re full (youth) and starve you when you’re hungry (midlife).”
“Alexis was at that age, seventeen, when mothers come into view as tyrants or imbeciles or both.”
“This is our condition. We do not solve problems. We replace them with other problems.”
“I excuse myself and go to the ladies’ room. Washing my hands, I give myself a little you
can do this type pep talk. When I walk out, I see him leaned up against the wall opposite the door.
"Long line for the men's room?" I try to joke, moving past him.
His hand circles my wrist, stopping me. I inhale, frozen in place. My back is to him. I don't
try to pull away. I can't move. I just look down at his hand, staring at his damn freckle.
"Sarah."
"What are you playing at, Will?'
"Playing?" He tugs my arm back so I'm facing him. "I promise you this is no game."
"Alright, what do you want from me? Is that better?" I practically spit.
"Everything." He's moved his hands up to hold my biceps. "I want everything from you."
Everything. That one word still breaks my heart when I think back to that night.
My head snaps back as though he's struck me. Don’t cry, just don’t cry. "I gave you
everything once. Now I have nothing left for you."
I pull myself from his grasp and hurry back to the table.”
“Maybe you’re the brat, always busy trying to make things what they aren’t.”
“I think it was Oscar Wilde who said, You wouldn’t care about what other people thought about you if you realized how seldom they actually did.”
“Nourish your eye and spirit with inspiring things. They will bloom with your tending.”
“Since being back in London everything seemed greyer, but clearer. She couldn't explain it. The strangest thing was she couldn't recall her New York self. She wanted that part of herself back, but she couldn't remember what it was like to be that Elle. She would catch a whiff of it, like the snatch of a song that still won't lead you to the chorus, and then it would be gone.”
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