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Preview — Find Me by André Aciman
“It’s just that the magic of someone new never lasts long enough. We only want those we can’t have. It’s those we lost or who never knew we existed who leave their mark. The others barely echo.”
“Everything went so fast and felt so natural, that neither saw the need to discuss the matter with our partners or give them a second thought. We simply let go all our inhibitions. In those days we still had inhibitions.”
“Aren’t those the absolute worst scenarios: the things that might have happened but never did and might still happen though we’ve given up hoping they could.”
“We’re strangers on a train, Sami, and I know talk is cheap,” she said, already fabricating a nickname for me, “but I’ve opened up to you and you’ve opened up to me. I don’t think either of us knows many people with whom we’ve been so casually honest. Let’s not make this the stereotypical moment that happens on a train and then stays on the train like an umbrella or a forgotten pair of gloves left behind somewhere. I know I’ll regret it. Plus, it would make me, Miranda, very happy.”
“As a French poet once said, some people smoke to put nicotine in their veins, others to put a cloud between them and others.”
None of us may want to claim to live life in two parallel lanes but all have many lives, one tucked beneath or right alongside the other. Some lives wait their turn because they haven’t been lived at all, while others die before they’ve lived out their time, and some are waiting to be relived because they haven’t been lived enough.
Basically, we don’t know how to think of time, because time doesn’t really understand time the way we do, because time couldn’t care less what we think of time, because time is just a wobbly, unreliable metaphor for how we think about life. Because ultimately it isn’t time that is wrong for us, or we for time. It may be life itself that is wrong.” “Why do you say that?” she asked. “Because there is death. Because death, contrary to what everyone tells you, is not part of life. Death is God’s great blunder, and sunset and dawn are how he blushes for shame and asks our forgiveness each and every ...more
“What these men have to offer I already have. And everything they want they don’t deserve, or I may not have in me to give. That’s the sad part.”
some people may be brokenhearted not because they’ve been hurt but because they’ve never found someone who mattered enough to hurt them.
“Why is it that I never notice these things?” “Maybe because you’re not a present-tense kind of person. This, for instance, is the present tense,” she said, reaching over and kissing me on the lips. It was not a full kiss, but it lingered and she let her tongue touch my lips. “And you smell good,” she said. Okay, I am fourteen now, I thought.
On winter nights when I cooked upstairs and would occasionally look out my kitchen window, I was waiting, but it was always someone else who knocked at my door. In seminars, when I’d light up a cigarette—and in those years you could—I waited for you to open the door. In a crowded movie theater, in bars with friends, everywhere, I waited. But I couldn’t find you, and you never came. I kept hoping to run into you at so many parties, and sometimes I almost thought I had, but it was never you, you were two years old at the time, and while we’re ordering a second round of drinks, your parents are ...more
“Everything in my life was merely prologue until now, merely delay, merely pastime, merely waste of time until I came to know you.”
What good is a key if the door’s wide open?
My father, your father, the piano, always the piano, and then you, like my son, but not like my son, and this Jewish thread running through both our lives, all of it reminds me that our lives are nothing more than excavation digs that are always tiers deeper that we thought. Or maybe it’s nothing, just nothing.
You know, life is not so original after all. It has uncanny ways of reminding us that, even without a God, there is a flash of retrospective brilliance in the way fate plays its cards. It doesn’t deal us fifty-two cards; it deals, say, four or five, and they happen to be the same ones our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents played. The cards look pretty frayed and bent. The choice of sequences is limited: at some point the cards will repeat themselves, seldom in the same order, but always in a pattern that seems uncannily familiar. Sometimes the last card is not even played by the ...more
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