She wanted to check that it was not her imagination, that she was not being unfair or undemocratic, or worse still racist (but she had read Colour Blind, a seminal leaflet from the Rainbow Coalition,...
Silence. Ah (...) Isn't that something? Did you know this is how other families are? They're quiet. Ask one of these people sitting here. They'll tell you. They've got famillies. This is how some fami...
So now I started playing hardball; now I picked the Dictaphone up and demanded to know about the shrapnel, for Harvey has some shrapnel in his groin, I know he does, and he knows I know. A doctor foun...
Sometimes in this life you have to take risks on other people.
Still, in the top left-hand corner, a huge button bought in New York's Union Square in the mid eighties: I myself have never been able to figure out precisely what feminism is. I only know that people...
Subtle people. Two steps ahead.
That there might be any practical divergence between my mother’s situation and her own did not seem to occur to Aimee, and this was one of my earliest lessons in her way of viewing the differences bet...
The art of mid-life is surely always cloudier than the art of youth, as life itself gets cloudier.
The choice one makes between partners, between one man and another, stretches beyond romance. It is the choice between values, possibilities, futures, hopes, arguments (shared concepts that fit the wo...
The clarity disturbed me. She
The experience of listening to an hour's music you barely know in a dead language you do not understand is a strange falling and rising experience. For minutes at a time you are walking deep into it,...
The fear was respect, the respect, fear. If you didn't have the fear you had nothing.
The fundamental skill of all mothers—the management of time—was beyond her.
The future's another country, man... And I still ain't got a passport.
The shit is *not* the shit (this was Mo's mantra,) the *pigeon* is the shit.
The stupidity/pleasure axis I apply to popular artists: how much pleasure they give versus how stupid one has to become to receive said pleasure.
The thing I feared was no longer my parents' authority over me but that they might haul out into the open their own intimate fears, their melancholy and regrets.
The way he understood the world was so genuinely alien to me that it felt as if he occupied a parallel reality, which I didn't doubt was the real one, but which I couldn't 'speak to,' to use a favorit...
There are so many different ways to be poor,
There’s never any knowing—how am I to put it?—which of our actions, which of our idlenesses won’t have things hanging on it for ever. —E. M. Forster, Where Angels Fear to Tread
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