Even the adorable drag in her step (like the little mermaid, too fragile to walk on land) drove me crazy. She was the golden thread running through everything, a lens that magnified beauty so that the...
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.
Certainly, families like Harriet’s (and Hely’s) would not tolerate for one moment brick-throwing at children white or black (or purple, as Edie was fond of piping up in any discussion about skin color...
Certainly I would be less frightened of death (not just my own death but Welty's death, Andy's death, Death in general) if I thought a familiar person came to meet us at the door, because — writing th...
But though I knew just how lucky I was, still it was impossible to feel happy or even grateful for my good fortune. It was as if I’d suffered a chemical change of the spirit: as if the acid balance of...
But then, six months ago, my dad hauled me with him to this shaddy town in Alaska. Seward Peninsula, just below Arctic Circle? And then, middle of May—we flew to Fairbanks on a prop plane, and then we...
But the moon was so large and clear through the uncurtained window that it made me think instead of a story my mother had told me, about driving to horse shows with her mother and father in the back s...
But despite the gloss and sparkle of the job (champagne breakfasts, gift bags from Bergdorf's) the hours were long and there was a hollowness at the heart of it that-I knew-made her sad.
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...
Because--isn't it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture--? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it's a cu...
Because, here’s the truth: life is catastrophe.
Because, here’s the truth: life is catastrophe. The basic fact of existence—of walking around trying to feed ourselves and find friends and whatever else we do—is catastrophe.
Because, here’s the truth: life is catastrophe. The basic fact of existence—of walking around trying to feed ourselves and find friends and whatever else we do—is catastrophe. Forget all this ridiculo...
Because I don’t care what anyone says or how often or winningly they say it: no one will ever, ever be able to persuade me that life is some awesome, rewarding treat.
Beauty—unless she is wed to something more meaningful—is always superficial.
Beauty is terror.
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 rarely soft or consolatory. Quite the contrary. Genuine beauty is always quite alarming.
Barbour, who had come down to the curb with me, said smoothly: