The Ferryman

by Justin Cronin

lassitude

And yet: it is not the parties and concerts she will miss; not the good leather of her luggage and shoes; not the long dinners with beautiful food and good wine and sparkling talk until all hours—none of these. What she will miss is the boy.

couturier,

you’re not taking care of yourself.”

Same thing his mom heard before killing herself

Also, the name seems to suit her, in the way that names sometimes do.

Love names like that

It might be a hundred and twenty, or a hundred and thirty, or even, in rare instances, one fifty. It represents the number of years that a mind can carry before it breaks under the load.

Many people pose this question, or some version of it. Am I doing this right? Am I like other people? Is this normal? We are herd animals, make no mistake.

“Oranios.”

There are seconds that aren’t seconds, not at all. They open around us like the bellows of a great cosmic accordion; within lies an infinite expanse, or so it feels. It is within this space that revelations come,

Why couldn’t I fully embrace the fact of her? Did this happen to all married couples—that we became, over time, a union not of choice but of habit?

A person could learn a lot just by looking at our shoes:

(Elise insisted on driving, making me feel, once again, less like a husband than a patient.)

The world is not the world. You’re not you. It’s all Oranios.

This night of music. Elise. Warren. Callista. Thea, sprite of the balcony. And Caeli—this strange, bossy, woebegone girl who had insinuated herself into my life. It was all right there. I just couldn’t see it.

Foreshadowing?