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“Maybe you’re right,” I conceded at last. Doubt: the first chink in the permafrost.
twenty-three, it’s too late for everything. Not
as innocent as caga tió carols
The pleasure I felt in sinking my waking hours into the lives of other people—full and perfect lives, bookended by two dates worthy of celebration—was indescribable.
That’s when it happened, just when I seemed to have reached peak happiness: a midafternoon phone call. Midafternoon phone calls are the worst kind of phone call.
Doubt: the rift through which the world’s heat slips in, a brazen violation of the permafrost.
order a copy of A History of World Art online. Ten just-like-new secondhand volumes for under four hundred euros, an investment that translates into six months of uninterrupted pleasure.
the residual sadness of a life unlived,
Cézanne could never have been Scottish.
time? I start to feel annoyed. I haven’t planned things out as well as I thought I had.
Getting a job after someone’s put in a good word for you must be the closest thing to falling in love.
She pulls a face like a cricket.
And she would say it just like that, in italics, because she had the ability to apply font to speech.
like a medieval illustration in an incunable at the British Library with primary colors pure as can be; the body invisible and solemn, face rigid, practically Egyptian, yet open thanks to eyes wider than they have ever been and hands whose two fingers—the ones usually used to nudge the ovum deep inside the cunt—are raised in warning, like in images of grown-up angels, and feet—feet bare and hovering centimeters above the head of an enormous snake. I think, Reach your foot down!
And all of a sudden, the inside of my head began to teem with flowers pink, purple, and blue.
She looked at me, knowing exactly what would happen between us.
Men’s hairdos are like Apple operating systems, highly compatible with all forms of life.
