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“I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive.”
― Donna Tartt, The Secret History

“If you do not want to write, at least spit on a piece of paper, put it in an envelope, and send it to me. You are not taking any notice of me at all. God forgive you – all I wanted was a few words from you.”
― Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

“Metahemeralism. Tell me about it. Everything you know. I gotta know something about metahemeralism."
"I'm sorry. I don't know what that is."
"I don't either," Bunny would say brokenly. "Got to do with art or pastoralism or something. That's how I gotta tie together John Donne and Izaak Walton, see." He would resume pacing. "Donne. Walton. Metahemeralism. That's the problem as I see it."
"Bunny, I don't think "metahemeralism" is even a word."
"Sure it is. Comes from the Latin. Has to do with irony and the pastoral. Yeah. That's it. Painting or sculpture or something, maybe."
"Is it in the dictionary?"
"Dunno. Don't know how to spell it. I mean" — he made a picture frame with his hands — "the poet and the fisherman. Parfait. Boon companions. Out in the open spaces. Living the good life. Metahemeralism's gotta be the glue here, see?"
And so it would go on, for sometimes half an hour or more, with Bunny raving about fishing, and sonnets, and heaven knew what, until in the middle of his monologue he would be struck by a brilliant thought and bluster off as suddenly as he had descended.
He finished the paper four days before the deadline and ran around showing it to everyone before he turned it in.
"This is a nice paper, Bun — ," Charles said cautiously.
"Thanks, thanks."
"But don't you think you ought to mention John Donne more often? Wasn't that your assignment?"
"Oh, Donne," Bunny had said scoffingly. "I don't want to drag him into this."
Henry had refused to read it. "I'm sure it's over my head, Bunny, really," he said, glancing over the first page. "Say, what's wrong with this type?"
"Tripled spaced it," said Bunny proudly.
"These lines are about an inch apart."
"Looks kind of like free verse, doesn't it?"
Henry made a funny little snorting noise through his nose. "Looks kind of like a menu," he said.
All I remember about the paper was that it ended with the sentence
"And as we leave Donne and Walton on the shores of Metahemeralism, we wave a fond farewell to those famous chums of yore.”
― God

“I was forced to acknowledge too late, much too late, that I too had loved, that I was capable of suffering, and that I was human after all.”
― Jacqueline Harpman, I Who Have Never Known Men