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Kindle Notes & Highlights
There is a room and it moves through the world.
a golden tower of National Geographics.
When I say it disappeared, I mean that the garage remembered that it did not have a black door in it, and was embarrassed.
On the wall is an oil painting of a black door—the room is self-regarding.
Hotels are unnatural, he said. Nature is offended by them.
But the practicality of Martine is profound, and speaks from her even, shining nails to her square glasses. If she could not bring supplies, she would not be venturing into the unknown.
Kaspar drinks iced gin and has very black eyes, hair the color of water, and one hundred and one black suits.
Did you try the other door? Kiss me, and I’ll tell you. And that was how it started between us. Bargaining, guarded. We went to his apartment, whose door he had painted black.
