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Deities themselves had changed over time, but the act of devotion had not. That was the torment of it, of art, and the perpetual idolatry of its creation. For every sensation Regan could conjure, there was an artist who had beautifully suffered the same.
The reverence is in making art—in being part of its creation, but then leaving it open to destruction.
That I could study you for a lifetime, carrying all of your peculiarities and discretions in the webs of my spidery palms, and still feel empty-handed.
He should tell her she looked pretty, he thought, though that was probably an underwhelming word.
She’s confounding, really intricate. Infinite.”
“She’d have to be measured infinitely in order to be calculated, which no one could ever do.”
If I am a lover of impossible problems then you will have loved me for my impossibilities, so tell me, Regan, what else matters but this, me, us?
