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that’s his whole brand now: purity.”
Love turned out to be soul-crippling, stomach-turning, weirdly claustrophobic: a sense of endlessness bottled up inside him, endless weight, endless potential, with only the small outlet of a shivering pale girl in a bad rain jacket to escape through.
The second murder was always easier than the first.
Leila would have been well advised, before marrying a novelist or imagining herself as one, to wait and sample life in a house where a big book was being contemplated.
Truh.
Practically the only living American writers Charles didn’t hate now were his students and former students, and if any of the latter had some success it was only a matter of time before they slighted him, betrayed him, and he added them to his list.
I’m starting to think paradise isn’t eternal contentment. It’s more like there’s something eternal about feeling contented.
strict limits to intimacy are the straight man’s burden.
xenophobes were winning elections or stocking up on assault rifles,
Death by any means would put an end to his throttling fear of it;
Her mother had needed to give love and receive it. This was why she’d had Pip. Was that so monstrous? Wasn’t it more like miraculously resourceful?
