Kirre Ranin > Kirre's Quotes

“If Andrea meant to speak with conviction he failed miserably. His words were as empty as his jeweled goblet. We were alike, my bother and I, each yearning for something other than what we had. But whereas I still held out hope, he had none.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“They say that over one hundred years ago, when Brunelleschi submitted his plans for the giant dome of Santa Maria del Fiore, Cosimo de Medici (grandfather of Il Magnifico) said it was too big a thing and it would collapse. He demanded a demonstration. Brunelleschi sent for a raw egg. "If I can make this stand on end, will you believe me?" he countered. Cosimo agreed.
With that, Brunelleschi cracked the bottom. Half of the egg stood up perfectly.
That day, as Nonna and I burst into Papa's study, I had no doubt as to the architect of my destruction.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“True beauty has nothing to do with what you wield, or even what you wear. Some day I shall prove that to you, Flora Pazzi, Goddess of Spring.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“Il Magnifico himself was wedged in a corner. He was a dark man with a brooding face and lean build. His tunic was wine red; his leggings were black. He was talking to another man -- one of Papa's colleagues from the Signoria. He pressed his forehead against the other man and whispered to him and patted him on the cheek. I imagined he used words like love and ally, but the word he was thinking was control.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“Then I heard a swish of skirts, and my sister came to join me.
She stood next to me on the threshold while four maids fussed with her skirts. Now properly done up, she looked luminous. Her eyebrows had been expertly painted; she wore a delicate gold headband that looked like a halo; her dress was pale pink -- almost white. There were gems sewn into the sleeves of her gown, little lights winking here and there from her wrist to her shoulder. On closer look those gems seemed puny for the lavish effect she was trying to create. I even spotted a flaw in one. A very familiar-looking, rabbit-shaped flaw.
She stood by me and her smile became a smirk.
Suddenly, I understood.
She had cloaked herself in my future.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“I am fifteen years old, sister," she continued. "I should have been married at twelve. I've heard noblemen whisper at dinner. They say I must have something wrong with me that holds suitors back. One even said that I've had congress with the devil, and under my skirts I have the legs of a goat.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“The sad eye's of the virgin. The feature's were Domenica's, but the expression was Nonna's. At last I understood. All Nonna's grisly warnings, the half secrets, the whacks upside the head. She behaved like a woman who knows her child is doomed. But she was not like Signor Botticelli's Madonna, blandly accepting the grapes and the wheat. She was a fighter that one. And she was fighting for me -- for all of us.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“I have been slowly losing the texture of my former life. The sight of my brothers swinging from the Bargello walls -- after a while they just became things to me. Straw men shedding their stuffing in the wind. Andrea's tormented face when I last saw him? It is just a shape, a pair of sunken cheekbones. I remember Papa's red cap but not the head underneath; I remember Domenica's hair, but she no longer turns around to face me. Even of Nonna all that remains is one grey braid sweeping her crooked back.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“I wouldn't say that, Flora. You're not old. Just different. Most people experience the spring of their life first. But you, cara mia, jumped straight into winter.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“Signor Botticelli produces a notebook from atop a marble pedestal and opens it to the first page. There I am in black and white, sitting in front of an anvil, my head in a wrap. I turn the page. There I am in profile. Here is a page after page of details about me in his notebook, my hands, my arms, the curve of my neck. Madonna! My every move has been scrutinized.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“On the far left is a handsome brown-haired youth with wings on his sandals. He reaches up and stirs clouds with his sword. I reach out and stroke his painted brown curls, and I remember a different boy, riding so fast from the hills it looked as though he was flying. "The messenger of the gods," I mutter.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“Right of centre in front is a fair-haired goddess in a white, almost transparent gown embroidered with flowers, and a wreath upon her head -- a bit like my garb today. She holds delicate blossoms in the fold of her dress, about to scatter them.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“Domenica? You think this is she? No, my dear. You are mistaken." He points to the woman behind, a sad Venus in a heavy red cloak. "This is Domenica back there. This is her realm, but not her story.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“I start to shake then. I shake and I can't stop. It's as if inside me there is a catastrophe going on, the kind that swallows houses and brings caves of ice crashing down from mountaintops.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“I look at the two remaining figures, the ones on the right side of the canvas, and I know.
These last two are a man and a woman. The man has a blue pallor and floats through the air. He blows onto the woman but at the same time his arms are open in to catch her.
The woman, another fair-haired beauty, runs from him in terror. Flowers spill from her mouth as if she is vomiting them. The blue-faced figure is Zephyrus, God of the West Wind, and the one running in terror is Chloris, the girl I was until today.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“Now, as Emilio smiles at me, I finally bloom.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“Nonna was wrong. She said that what made Flora -- the original Flora -- change into a goddess was her suffering. Now, many years later, I know that while her suffering may have shaped her, it was her ability to forgive which made her divine.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“The four of us drank wine from jeweled goblets. Signor Botticelli toasted himself. "To my genius!" he said with a raised glass. "I only hope I have done the two of you justice." Emilio and I told him that yes, he'd done us more than justice, that it was one of the best works of art we'd ever seen. Signor Botticelli drank in the praise more readily than the wine; I thought he would never get his fill.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“Did I love Emilio because he was so blessed with loveliness his eyes shone with it? Did I love him because we'd played and then suffered together? Or did I love him simply because I was too relieved to see him alive and whole that I wept another Arno on Signor Botticelli's floor? I'll never know. But I choose to believe that, just as Signor Botticelli saw my spirit, I saw his, and I knew he was the one person in the person with whom I could be free.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“Amore per sempre. Love. Forever. Those words sounded strange at first as Emilio situated me in front of him on his horse. I bid him say those words again, so he did. This time they landed easier on my ears, like the softest of velvet. He wrapped his arms around me to grip the reins, and I leaned back into his embrace. It wasn't difficult at all.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“I am forging a gold ring one spring morning when Signor Botticelli comes into our shop. I slouch closer to the anvil and draw my tunic tighter around my neck. I pray he does not recognize me. Indeed, my disguise is good, and it has been four years since we last met. Besides, Signor Botticelli only notices beautiful things. I am not beautiful, with my face smeared with ash and smoke, my hair bound up in a rag. I look like what I have become: a goldsmith's apprentice.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“As he and my master speak I allow myself to take in the rest of him. The four years have been kinder to him than me. His sandy hair is streaked with gray; his garb is that of a rich man. His cloak is lush green velvet embroidered with tiny flowers. It looks as if he is wearing an entire meadow on his back. Underneath his cloak rests a heavy gold cross with one single ruby embedded in the middle, and etched swirls like maiden's hair winging out to its four sides.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“I set the hot ring down and inspect my hands. They are black. Underneath the black is red from the constant heat; underneath the red is the fine, white cross-hatching of scars which have made a tapestry of my palms. I know I shouldn't, but I like the layering of colors. Three layers, each different. What would you see if you cut me open to the heart?”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“It was early 1478 when my family's fortunes ebbed, like the waters of the Arno. Those who still speak of the April Rebellion say how sudden it was, how no one had any idea things were so bad in our city of flowers. But I say there were clues. Those who didn't see them were men like Il Magnifico, who only listened to good news, never noticing shadows gathering around them until it was almost too late.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“The year was 1478. My name was Lorenza Pazzi, but everyone called me Flora. I had eleven brothers and sisters. I was the last daughter in my father's house.
Now there are days when I feel I am just the last.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“And where did I fit in with this clan? I was not beautiful, like Domenica; I was not practiced in flattery, like Renato; nor was I learned, like my brother Andrea. While others had their sprezzatura, their effortless mastery, I had none. I was just Flora. I lived to help other things grow.”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“It is not fair, I thought as I walked away. She has a banquet of love. Might not a little crumb be spared for me?”
― Mary Jane Beaufrand, Primavera

“Art and ardor are combined. Only in Florence could such delightful and imaginative design be created. And here I am years later still asking myself who those two lovers might be.”
― Fay Picardi, Simonetta

“There it is. The Arno flowing swiftly with the spring thaw. Its furor fills me with a sense of abandon I have rarely felt during these last weeks. Today, I will no longer be Piero Vespucci's daughter-in-law to be bartered to procure favors. I will again me my mother's youngest and most beloved child. I will imagine I am free. I will take flight over Florence, soaring as a hawk would soar. Perhaps one of Lorenzo's hawks. High over Florence. High over the hills.”
― Fay Picardi, Simonetta

“In the early fall, just as the elms began to turn, my mother made huge bowls of pesto which were stories in glazed earthenware jugs for us to use the rest of the year. She did not permit the servants to help, not even to strip and wash the basil leaves. She was sole proprietress of her pesto. All winter she added spoonfuls of it to sauces and soups or ladled cupfuls over the fresh pasta the servants made. Since that time I have eaten many expensive, even imported, delicacies, but to this day, the meals made with my mother's pesto please me the most.”
― Fay Picardi, Simonetta