How much did she remember? I wondered, afire with humiliation yet unable to tear my eyes from her. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could ask but still I wanted to know. Did she have nightmares too? Cr...
From my chair I had a clear view of Hobie’s Noah’s Ark: paired elephants, zebras, carven beasts marching two by two, clear down to tiny hen and rooster and the bunnies and mice bringing up the rear. A...
For in the deepest, most unshakable part of myself reason was useless.
Death is the mother of beautyAnd what is beauty?TerrorWell said. Beauty is rarely soft or consolatory. Quite the contrary, genuine beauty is always quite alarming
But the intimacy, the smallness, also made me feel shut out; and I found myself hurrying past the inviting little doorways with my head down, very aware of all the convivial Sunday-morning lives unrol...
Because: if our secret defines us, as opposed to the face we show the world: then the painting was the secret that raised me above the surface of life and enabled me to know who I am. And it's there:...
And, in this staunch little portrait, it’s hard not to see the human in the finch. Dignified, vulnerable. One prisoner looking at another. But who knows what Fabritius intended? There’s not enough of...
And the heart-shock of believing, for only a moment, that you might just have what could never be yours.
An object—any object—was worth whatever you could get somebody to pay for it.
Always remember, the person we’re really working for is the person who’s restoring the piece a hundred years from now. He’s the one we want to impress.
A love more binding than physical affection, some tar-pit of the soul where I might flop around and malinger for years.
Everything takes me longer than I expect. It's the sad truth about life.
Às vezes queremos o que queremos mesmo sabendo que isso vai nos matar. Não podemos escapar de quem somos.
¿quién dijo que la coincidencia es la manera que Dios tiene de permanecer anónimo?
He’d probably just crawl in the corner and starve. Like a hamster you forgot to feed.
An excuse to bring out the bottle of sherry and visit
We were heading into the clumsy territory of my mother’s funeral, stretched-out silences, wrong smiles, the place where words didn’t work.
The dead appear to us in dreams because that's the only way they can make us see them; what we see is only a projection, beamed from a great distance, light shining at us from a dead star...
That woman can sell water to a drowning man.
Sometimes I wondered exactly what it might take to break Andy out of his math-nerd turret: a tidal wave? Decepticon invasion? Godzilla tromping down Fifth Avenue? He was a planet without an atmosphere...