It all remained unreadable for him, though reading, he felt, was not a natural thing and should not be done to people. In general, people were not road maps. People were not hieroglyphs or books. They...
A woman had to choose her own particular unhappiness carefully. That was the only happiness in life: to choose the best unhappiness. An unwise move, good God, you could squander everything.
All the world's a stage we're going through.
Biri sizden ayrıldığında tüm çekiciliğinizi kaybedersiniz ve karşı tarafın yeni bir başlangıç yaparken size dair beslediği tüm kuşkular böylece kanıtlanmış olur.
But this is the kind of thing that fiction is: it's the unlivable life, the strange room tacked onto the house, the extra moon that is circling the earth unbeknownst to science.
Don't make your own life your project in your own life: total waste of time.
Every family is a family of alligators.
Her parents had gone from a couple who would be different, who would be better than anyone, who were determined to be better than most, to a couple who would be different because they were worse.
His eyes were caught in the headlights of something - foreign policy?
I can't believe I just asked you to hold my hand,' said Ira, but Mike had already taken it.
I feel his lack of love for me.
It is unacceptable, all the stunned and anxious missing a person is asked to endure in life. It is not to be endured, not really.
Like everyone he knew, he could discern the hollowness in people’s charm only when it was directed at someone other than himself.
Love is a fever, she said. And when you come out of it you'll discover whether you've been lucky - or not.
Mostly, however, he had books about love. He believed in studying his own heart this way.
On-yez, where are you from, dear?' asked a black-slacked, frosted-haired woman whose skin was papery and melanomic with suntan. 'Originally.' She eyed Agnes's outfit as if it might be what in fact it...
One of the problems with people in Chicago, she remembered, was that they were never lonely at the same time. Their sadness occurred in isolation, lurched and spazzed, sent them spinning fizzly back i...
Perhaps we had at last reached that stage of intimacy that destroys intimacy.
She gazed over at her mother and took a deep breath. Perhaps her mother had never shown Abby affection, not really, but she had given her a knack for solitude, with its terrible lurches outward, and i...
She liked her pieces to have something from every time of day in them — she didn't trust things written in the morning only — so she reread and rewrote painstakingly. No part of a day — its moods, its...
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