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Yet a house that has, literally, a personality—which we call “haunted” when that personality is blatant.
124 WAS SPITEFUL. Full of a baby’s venom. The women in the house knew it and so did the children.
Her past had been like her present—intolerable—and since she knew death was anything but forgetfulness, she used the little energy left her for pondering color.
Places, places are still there. If a house burns down, it’s gone, but the place—the picture of it—stays, and not just in my rememory, but out there, in the world.
She did not tell them to clean up their lives or to go and sin no more. She did not tell them they were the blessed of the earth, its inheriting meek or its glorybound pure. She told them that the only grace they could have was the grace they could imagine. That if they could not see it, they would not have it.
There is no bad luck in the world but whitefolks.”
some advice about how to keep on with a brain greedy for news nobody could live with in a world happy to provide it.
She will forgo the most violent of sunsets, stars as fat as dinner plates and all the blood of autumn and settle for the palest yellow if it comes from her Beloved.
Death is a skipped meal compared to this.
He knew exactly what she meant: to get to a place where you could love anything you chose—not to need permission for desire—well now, that was freedom.
