Miss MacIntosh, My Darling Quotes

“For all dead loves and all remembered things. I have travelled through many seas.”
― Marguerite Young, Miss MacIntosh, My Darling

“Forgive this breaking body as you forgive the star, the star whispering in the wind when the star is no more. Forgive this secret none can tell. None can tell and live.”
― Marguerite Young, Miss MacIntosh, My Darling

“She would hang a sign in the restaurant window--Owt to luntsch. Bee bak in a whale. For she could not spell either.”
― Marguerite Young, Miss MacIntosh, My Darling

“It was never reveille in this windy world.”
― Marguerite Young, Miss MacIntosh, My Darling

“What was the organization of illusion, of memory? Who knew even his own divided heart? Who knew all hearts as his own? Among beings strange to each other, those divided by the long roarings of time, of space, those who have never met or, when they meet, have not recognized as their own the other heart and that heart's weaknesses, have turned stonily away, would there not be, in the vision of some omniscient eye, a web of spidery logic establishing the most secret relationships, deep calling to deep, illuminations of the eternal darkness, recognitions in the night world of voyager dreams, all barriers dissolving, all souls as one and united? Every heart is the other heart. Every soul is the other soul. Every face is the other face. The individual is the one illusion.”
― Marguerite Young, Miss MacIntosh, My Darling

“The bus-driver was whistling, perhaps in anticipation of his wife, who would be a woman with ample breasts, those of a realized maturity. It would be impossible that he did not have, from my point of view, a wife and children, indeed, a happiness such as I could not imagine to be real, even like some legend out of the golden ages. He had spoken numerous times during our journey of his old woman waiting, and he was going home.”
― Marguerite Young, Miss MacIntosh, My Darling

“Every heart is the other heart. Every soul is the other soul. Every face is the other face. The individual is the one illusion... Nothing I had touched but that it had faded like a dream... My illness had been great, dead souls like the autumn leaves stirring where I walked... What motive in this quest but the search for life, for love, for truth that does not fail?”
― Marguerite Young, Miss MacIntosh, My Darling