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Being a muse is mostly this—a sifting through of memories to find something of merit, hauling it to the surface where it can shine.
“A writer, are you?” Galileo said. “Cursed, even more than an astronomer. Full of strong opinions that will leave you cold in your old age.”
A boy who cares more for the freedom to direct his own gaze than for the master’s anger is a rare creature indeed.
The man working the counter is wearing a black suit and a crisp white shirt and has the haughtiness so common among people who serve the rich for a living, as if they are superior just from being near other people’s money.
Well, it’s a hard time getting anything in this life without taking it from someone else.”
“These are so clearly not the good old days,”
Who knew the world was so unforgiving, so eager to cull?
