I honestly can't remember much else about those years except a certain mood that permeated most of them, a melancholy feeling that I associate with watching 'The Wonderful World of Disney' on Sunday n...
I hated being around people, couldn’t pay attention to what anyone was saying, couldn’t talk to clients, couldn’t tag my pieces, couldn’t ride the subway, human activity seemed pointless, incomprehens...
I had nothing to offer her. I was illness, instability, everything she wanted to get away from.
I blinked at her. My shades were down and the hall was dark and to me, half-drugged and reeling, she seemed not at all her bright unattainable self but rather a hazy and ineffably tender apparition, a...
He’s telling you that living things don’t last—it’s all temporary. Death in life. That’s why they’re called natures mortes. Maybe you don’t see it at first with all the beauty and bloom, the little sp...
Henry. Please. I was on the verge of tears. What's the matter with you? Have you lost your mind? Don't you understand what's going on? He stood up, dusted his hands on his trousers.
He was a marvelous talker, a magical talker, and I wish I were able to give a better idea what he said, but it is impossible for a mediocre intellect to render the speech of a superior one
He played with relish, sleeves rolled up, smiling at his work, tinkling from the low ranges to the high with the tricky syncopation of a tap dancer going up a Ziegfeld staircase.
Hampden College, as a body, was always strangely prone to hysteria. Whether from isolation, malice, or simple boredom, people there were far more credulous and excitable than educated people are gener...
Goyen there. Sadly not for sale. Van Goyen? I would have sworn that was a Corot. From here, yes, you might. He was pleased at the comparison. Very similar painters—Vincent
Es muy ruso quejarse continuamente de lo mal que van las cosas. Si la vida te va bien, cállatelo. No vayas a tentar al diablo...
Demands? said Andy. She makes it sound as if you’re asking for ten million in unmarked notes.
Death is the mother of beauty.
DeFrees, a dealer in nineteenth-century watercolors who for all her stiff clothes and strong perfumes was a hugger and a cuddler, with the old-ladyish habit of liking
Chlorotic, with a sunken chest, he smoked incessantly, wore cheap shirts that had grayed in the wash, drank endless cups of sugary tea.
Caring too much for objects can destroy you. Only -- if you take care for a thing enough, it takes on a life of its own, doesn't it? And isn't the whole point of things -- beautiful things -- that the...
Can’t good come around sometimes through some strange back doors?
Boris laughed, and threw out some fake-looking gang sign. Suit yourself, yo, he said, in his gangsta voice (discernible from his regular voice only by the hand gesture and the yo) as he got up and rol...
Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. That night I wrote in my journal: Trees are schizophrenic now and beginning to lose control, enraged with the shock of their fiery ne...
Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. (...) We want to be devoured by it, to hide ourselves in that fire which refines us.