The Vulnerables

by Sigrid Nunez

In one case, a man who was not told about his stillborn twin until he was well into adulthood described experiencing huge relief. At last he had an explanation for the aching void he had always known; why through every joy in his life, no matter how rich, ran a seam of grief.

Something is missing. Something has been lost. I believe this is at the heart of why I write.

But the feeling has survived and will not go away: I want to know why I feel as though I have been mourning all my life.

But I take issue with the gods for making me pay for it not just once but so many times.

A cure for many ills, it’s been called. For the alleviation of stress and anxiety; for comfort in mourning, sadness, and loss: find someone who needs your help.

For a writer, nothing is ever quite as bad as it is for other people, because, however dreadful, it may be of use.

at the end of his life, Darwin said he wished that he had read more poetry.

I like last words. Beethoven: I shall hear in Heaven.

can tell the story of my life in just four words. Good times, bad times. There will always be lacemakers. There will always be convents. But about you, my love, I will never feel as cold as ice.

How Nietzsche saw it: Of course hope is an evil. In reality it is the worst of all evils, he said, for it prolongs the torments of man.

Another image of her: evenings in a rocking chair, bent over her embroidery—like a scene from a hundred years before. And really, it was from her, wasn’t it, that I took in, early on, how much of life is shaped by sadness for what’s left behind.