The Guest List

by Lucy Foley

But no matter what happens, life is only a series of days. You can’t control more than a single day. But you can control one of them. Twenty-four hours can be curated. A wedding day is a neat little parcel of time in which I can create something whole and perfect to be cherished for a lifetime, a pearl from a broken necklace.

But that’s nostalgia for you, the tyranny of those memories of childhood that feel so golden, so perfect.

I’m not worried about it being haunted. I have my own ghosts. I carry them with me wherever I go.

In my experience those who have the greatest respect for the rules also take the most enjoyment in breaking them.

If I could cry it might all be better, but I can’t. It’s like an ability I’ve lost, like a language I’ve forgotten.

As a civilization it feels as though we float somewhere between a kind of savage wilderness and our self-curation—that perfect veneer we try to present to the outside world.

None of us is perfect and without our own flaws, petty jealousies, uncharitable thoughts, so why should a character in a book be? That just wouldn’t feel believable. Because, after all, aren’t we all a little bit bad?