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'That's what I love about reading: one tiny thing will lead you onto another book, and that tiny thing will lead you onto another book, and another bit there will lead you onto a third book. It's geometrically progressive - all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment.'

She's not wrong. I've bought Elizabeth and Her German Garden because it's been mentioned in THIS book.

A map on the opening page promises adventure.

NO! No no no no. I'm enraged. Sloppy, lazy, mindless shock-and-awe writing too late in the game. To wreck what had become a truly interesting plot. I'm furious. I thought I'd end up really liking this book, with everything said and done. Nevermind. Cheap obvious wretched decision w.r.t. the plot. I know I'm getting incoherent but I'm so so angry.

Justice. Too spoilery to say more.

"'How are you?'
'I'm fine,' May lied; what else could one possibly say? It didn't matter anyhow, it was each other's voices they were after, not what either of them thought or said about anything."

Half of the telephone calls I make are made for these same motives.

He was never a man to shirk his duty, which was what he called anything that he wanted to do enough to decide to do it.

Ever have a well-that's-painfully-familiar moment while reading? If not, you don't read enough.

'One thing she realized about her life was that through some initial piece of cowardice (masked, at the time as not wanting to hurt other people's feelings), she kept on landing herself in awkward situations.'

I know your feels, May. I know them well.

And then this:

"'Am I exactly like everybody else you've ever met?'
'Not absolutely exactly like everybody I've ever met.'
Which was really only half withdrawing the barb - and twisting it to boot."

She's a goddess.

'In a messy, multi-horrible way he'd never felt worse in his life. The whole evening had been a bit like being at the wrong (receiving) end of some major character's revelations in a play of Shaw's.'

This gave me hysterical giggles. On multiple levels. It's magnificent to see Oliver beaten, and it's likely that being on the receiving end of a Shaw-written revelation would drive one to temporary alcoholism.

When tequila was a big damn exotic deal:

'He watched while she filled a glass to the brim, put a pinch of salt on the edge of her hand, ate the salt, knelt to drink, and then squeezed the lemon [he's mistaken - it's a lime] juice down her throat. This was the kind of thing she did in a manner both practised and dashing.'

'Have you been crying? Have I been out for ages? Can it be that deep down you care for me?'
But she answered with disarming truth. 'Don't be silly: you know perfectly well I haven't got a deep down.'

My favorite character is this little bimbo everyone either resents or takes for granted. She's an elegant little weasel. Or, rather, ferret.

'People really shouldn't do that,' she said aloud but really to herself.
'What shouldn't they do?'
'Turn away while you can still see them doing it. It doesn't sound as though they don't care enough; it sounds as though they don't care at all.'
'Look, or looks.'

I love me some rhetorical enforcement.

'I'm sorry, I'm no good at talking on the telephone.'
'The trouble is that there's nothing else you can do on it really.'

Hehehehehehe.

'There is a curious sensation of genuinely trying to comfort somebody who is sincerely unhappy when they are utterly unused to being comforted. Elizabeth found that you quickly reach a point where anything you do feels dishonest; you are embracing or stroking a tree, not a person; any words you say sound as though you have not understood or do not care.'

Excellent.

'Think of my broken heart.'
'Oh yes! Poor Oliver! Do you mind awfully about her? I mean - is your heart broken?'
'A bit,' he said, 'but don't worry - it's smaller than yours.'

I'm really warming to this novel. Specifically, to a precious knowing believable relationship between siblings. The rest is surplus - sprinkles and whipped cream and cherries.

'Their hands touched and all the other starvations shouted out.'

'Over her head, on the top of the terrace by the villa, he saw the tiny figure of his love. She was walking very slowly and then, because she stood still for a moment, he imagined that she was looking out to sea, to the raft, to him.'

Lovely.

'We've got plenty of time to talk about Oliver.'
'Have we? Really?'
'All our lives.'

It's exactly like that horrible moment in Jane Eyre where you realize she's getting her happy ending HALF WAY THROUGH THE BOOK, which means that shit's got plenty of time to hit the fan. THERE IS SUSPENSE AND I HATE IT.

This bit:

"'I'm so happy that every day seems about like a week, and I can't even imagine leaving here. It's extraordinary how when everything is being perfect, the future simply doesn't count at all - there's just what happened before, and now is everything else.'
Oliver was silent at this, because he had never been as happy as that."

A surprising sad interesting moment.

I love this paragraph:

'She perched on the end of some gaudy chaise-longue, licking cherry jam off her fingers and smiling gently as she looked from one to the other. "Like a little marmalade cat," John said.'

And later: '...it was like some brilliant daydream, with each pair of them admiring the third so that they took turns at being part of a conspiracy and the object of conspiratorial approval.'

A funny bit of dialogue:

Oliver: That's a very clever guess - how did you think of it?
Elizabeth: John says I'm quite intelligent - very intelligent.
Oliver: He must be in love with you.

What a brat. I love it.

About a butler: 'and then he said I was insulting him and after that he sulked for two frightful days (a really effective sulker; the bathwater and the champagne became exactly the same uninviting temperature).'

I love the thoughts in parentheticals, like actual thought bubbles.

"'Is Mrs Cole your wife' (How could I. Don't tell me, I don't want to know.)"

Chuckling.

"supposing she were to die - would the house then naturally belong to him?" - The plot thickens and I don't like it.

On introversion: 'the thought of being stuck on a ship with a lot of strangers getting on with one another seemed like being the only prisoner in a social concentration camp.'

I'm warming up to E.J. Howard.

'She longed for a friend, but had no idea how to make one; she blushed very easily, and her asthma ruined every summer term; school food brought out the worst of her acne; and the difficulty she found in communicating - with anyone at all - made her seem far more obstinate even than she was.'

THESE ARE THE THINGS THAT KEPT ME AWAKE ALL NIGHT THROUGH MY TEENS. Except asthma. I hyperventilate enough as is.

Wanna read about my insecurities? Here: 'Introspective children who are neither pretty nor very clever are simply a baffling nuisance to overworked staff; the children immediately recognized her as easy prey for bullying, and in the end too dull even to be worth those attentions."

'He frequently asked her if she was happy and she knew that he felt sure she was, so of course she said yes.'

The resignation of it all. I need tissues and hugs for my heart.

So, this bit: 'he was all masculine steadiness and assurance and she imagined that he understood her.'

Well now I'm sad.

Love this:
"'Darling Liz! Here!' He seized the remains of a packet of popcorn and started to feed her. 'It's almost impossible to cry if your mouth is absolutely full. Unless you're about two, when it all slides out like a slimy blind. Poor Liz!' He put his arm round her and gave her a hug and such a weighty kiss on the cheek nearest him that all the popcorn had to change sides, and she nearly laughed."