I’m just gonna write “hockey” on a dollar and leave it next to these jars.
And what next, he asked, to which I had no answer. New subjects, I told him, and new verbs. I had no idea what those would involve, I admitted, but my days would have something like a new vocabulary.
— Chloe Aridjis, Asunder
“We respect your privacy. And we are not going to peek into your emails anymore. You can consider this an early birthday present, which you are receiving two days before the surprise party at Red Lobster that your family has been planning via Gchat conversations for the past two weeks.”
Yeah, but does your library have a milk carton igloo?
Unlikely truths are useful and life is full of them, far more than the very worst of novels, no novel would ever dare give houseroom to the infinite number of chances and coincidences that can occur in a single lifetime, let alone all those that have already occurred and continue to occur. It’s quite shameful the way reality imposes no limits on itself.
— Javier Marias, The Infatuations. (via paperbackgirl)
But really good artists had lots of empty in their paintings or whatever they did. They left everything out, or most things anyway, but suggested something, so that she could take her own things into the painting, and the best art of all was when she didn’t really know what she was taking in with her, but it felt right, and when she looked at that art and took herself into it she felt amazing.
— Keith Ridgway, Hawthorn & Child
Our Lincoln impersonator is a bit confused by the library’s automated book sorter.
Paul Simon was joking that his upcoming tour with Sting should be called "The Sound of Every Breath". My coworkers and I thought of some other options at lunch today:
"50 Ways to Leave Your Englishman in New York"
"You Can Call Me Roxanne"
"Don’t Stand So Close to Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard."
If a painting really works down in your heart and changes the way you see, and think, and feel, you don’t think, “oh, I love this painting because it’s universal.” “I love this painting because it speaks to all mankind.” That’s not the reason anyone loves a piece of art. It’s a secret whisper from an alleyway. Psst, you. Hey kid. Yes you.
— Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch
We have had enough of a story to settle into; events have taken place; relationships have been developed or shattered; people have died, or simply grown up; and then there is one step more, that Munrovian step, that takes the story suddenly to a new place. Then, instead of leaving us there, reeling, astounded by the shift—as a lesser writer might—Alice gently carries us forward, through the revelation, through the surprise or shock of it, to some kind of understanding, some acceptance, whether rueful or joyful. Nothing is neatly wrapped up, but we are shown a path through the wilderness.
Maintaining the front lawn had become a point of pride for Eddie’s father, who wanted to set an example for the young families, to show them that just because the world often seemed to reward ugliness was no excuse to give up on beauty.
— Kathryn Davis, Duplex