John

“And after that, you’d gone through life searching and searching—though you hadn’t realized it, not until this moment—and sometimes you came across a scent or taste that reminded you of it, that was almost it, but never quite. And now that you’d resigned yourself to your loss, here it was again, that sensation, following those prickly little preliminary surprises and sparks of flavor you couldn’t quite name, here it was in your mouth, filling your senses and whispering to you about the old dog whose curly coat moved so miraculously under your childhood fingers, the taste of a thick grass stem after rain, the feel of your mother’s hand pushing the hair from the side of your face.”
― Juliet Wittman, Stocker's Kitchen

“Growing up in Fitzgerald, I lived in an intense microcosm, where your neighbor knows what you're going to do even before you do, where you can recognize a family gene pool by the lift of an eyebrow, or the length of a neck, or a way of walking. What is said, what is left to the imagination, what is denied, withheld, exaggerated-all these secretive, inverted things informed my childhood. Writing the stories that I found in the box, I remember being particularly fascinated by secrets kept in order to protect someone from who you are. That protection, sharpest knife in the drawer, I absorbed as naturally as a southern accent. At that time, I was curious to hold up to the light glimpses of the family that I had so efficiently fled. We were remote-back behind nowhere-when I was growing up, but even so, enormous social change was about to crumble foundations. Who were we, way far South? "We're south of everywhere," my mother used to lament.”
― Frances Mayes, Under Magnolia: A Southern Memoir

“You’re not as cold as you pretend to be,’ she said. ‘I think your doors open in different places, that’s all. Most people just don’t know how to get in to you. They knock and they knock where the door is supposed to be, but it’s a blank wall. But you’re there. I’ve watched you. I’ve seen you do some awfully cold things warmly and some warm things coldly. Or does that make sense?”
― Evan S. Connell, Mr. Bridge

“Memory is capricious. I can look back and see decadence, old bigots, the constant racial slurs, the bores, the wild cards, the bighearted, the family album of alcoholics, the saints, the old aunt propped in a chair saying only "da-da," the slow-motion suicides, but at four, six, ten, they loomed, powerful, not as types but as themselves. Among them, logic takes wing." (pg. 31)”
― Frances Mayes, Under Magnolia: A Southern Memoir