Tragedy and occasional instants of redemption ... how much redemption is enough to overcome lifelong injury at the hands of other people? Lauren B. Davis' first book after *The Radiant City* focuses again on people who may or may not have been ruined by experience ... Davis has an intricate understanding of what trauma does, especially when it is inflicted by other humans.
Quotes:
She agreed with Virginia's (Woolf) quote. An elegant life was lived by immersion in the quotidian, by honouring creation with awareness.
Surely people should be made to understand that most everything was none of their business.
Pride in excess was a bad thing, but a little, judiciously applied, could steel up a backbone quite nicely.
Patty's face appeared in his mind's eye and he wanted to be home, to be snuggled up against his wife's delicate spine, his arm around her, cradling a soft breast, adjusting his breathing to hers.
"Bobby, young Bobby," he said, with a wide grin, "welcome to the real world, my man. Step right up. Learn to take it, young Bobby, because the shit keeps coming and if you don't learn to swim in it you'll drown with a mouth full of crap."
They would end up like all the other couples, sitting across from each other at brightly lit tables in the food court at the shopping mall, staring at their food, not talking, not touching. It was enough to make you want to stick a fork in your eye.
You had to be careful with strength. You had to know when to use it, and when to keep it tucked up under your arm.
Encysted deep in every father [man] is the son he once was, who compares everything he does to what his own father did -- the old kind is dead, long live the king.
You kept your mouth shut -- that was the way you learned. You let people tell you things they didn't know they were telling you. It was an art he'd learned, growing up in a place where your life depended on recognizing the slightest change in vocal inflection, the smallest shift in conversational subject.
"Well," said Gladys, "don't let it get you down, kid. More assholes in the world than angels. Might just as well get used to it."
"How can I ever trust myself again?" he said.
And there was the crux of it, really. Once you had been betrayed, not only by the woman you loved, but by your own perceptions, how could you trust yourself to make any decisions at all, about anything? It was paralysis -- physical, emotional, spiritual.
The sound, the cry, came again then. Mourning made manifest. Such grief was surely as isolating, as solitary as any cell of stone or steel, as any nail and cross. Left to its own devices it would suck the entire world into the centre of its tarry core.
"Can't think of any good reason for you to be up there, honestly. They're not exactly your kind of people, now are they?"
"My kind of people? Your kind of people? What does that mean, exactly?"
"You know what I mean."
"Yes, and that's precisely the problem, isn't it?'
Once known, shameful things are never unknown.
In the clarity that sometimes occurs when one drops one's troubles into the arms of Morpheus, what she must do was now obvious ...
"I believe it was the Austrian writer Robert Musil who said, 'There is no truth which stupidity can't make use of.'"