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at 4:15 a.m., anything seems possible. Anything.
that getting old was like getting a bad dessert at the end of a really fine meal.”
I’ve never in my life known one woman to smile that much at another without hating her guts.
Everything lies in intent. There are few mistakes in this world . . . and once you get to know your way around, maybe there are no mistakes at all.
His ears filled with that silvery sobbing sound, so constant and so chillingly vacuous; the weeping voice of a congenital idiot.
For a moment Ralph simply stood where he was, struck dumb by their beauty—the ephemeral, powerful beauty that was, he supposed, what Short-Time life was mostly about.
perhaps real beauty was something unrecognized by the conscious self, a work that was always in progress, a thing of being rather than seeing.
He was so different, her son, so special . . . but the world did not love people like that. The world tried to root them out, like tares from a garden.
They lived in fearful perplexity and passed it off as imagination.
It was life, often unsatisfying, frequently cruel, usually boring, sometimes beautiful, once in awhile exhilarating.
