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Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.
Déjà vu. Déjà su. Déjà vécu. Already seen. Already known. Already lived.
It’s not that bad, which is easy to say when you’ve never had a day of rain.
Being forgotten, she thinks, is a bit like going mad. You begin to wonder what is real, if you are real. After all, how can a thing be real if it cannot be remembered? It’s like that Zen koan, the one about the tree falling in the woods. If no one heard it, did it happen? If a person cannot leave a mark, do they exist?
She considers the cut of their clothes, the absence of bone stays or bustled skirts, and thinks, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, how much simpler it would be to be a man, how easily they move through the world, and at such little cost.
“Why would anyone trade a lifetime of talent for a few years of glory?” Luc’s smile darkens. “Because time is cruel to all, and crueler still to artists. Because vision weakens, and voices wither, and talent fades.”
Greatness requires sacrifice. Who you sacrifice to matters less than what you sacrifice for. And in the end, she became what she wanted to be.” “A martyr?” “A legend.”
She peels back the cover, turns past the title to the dedication. Three small words rest in the center of the page. I remember you.
i’m going to throw my phone
