Milk Quotes

“He imagined Mary and he curled together on the futon. The scent of her skin like vanilla yogurt. The things she loved, his monk’s fringe, his barrel chest, the feminine way he moved his hands, were all things he found humiliating, but she loved them—he kept having to remind himself of that. Mac would argue that he was filled with manic passion. He was, as Mac loved to say, out of spiritual whack. Mac would try to convince him that heaviness was not real presence. But Mac was wrong. A weightless soul was worthless.”
― Darcey Steinke, Milk: A Novel

“Walter kneeled down and pulled out the enamel canister. The lid stuck at first, but by using the file on his nail clipper, he levered the top off, and there, in a plastic bag tied with a twisty, was what remained of Carlos. He looked at the white ash and bits of gray bone matter. That people you loved died was unacceptable. Also that people you fucked wanted you to vanish was unacceptable. But really it was mostly that people you loved died—this was completely unacceptable. He sat the canister on the nightstand and lit a cigarette, blew out a tendril of smoke. Carlos had been explicit about his ashes; he wanted them scattered down by Bargemusic. Walter had been putting it off, but as soon as it got light he decided to walk down to the bridge. He thought of the ashes floating down into the East River, the fine gray dust burnt clean and pure.”
― Darcey Steinke, Milk: A Novel

“He’d seen orderlies roll Carlos off on a gurney after he died, and he’d picked up his ashes at the crematorium. But he couldn’t really believe Carlos was dead. His soul had flown to God but his physical qualities had been infused into everything, one man’s long eyelashes, another’s chaotic hand movements. Once Walter saw a pigeon cock his head in a gesture reminiscent of Carlos and, another time, saw a branch shift in the wind, the same way that Carlos, when surprised, swayed back on his heels. Carlos commingled with everything. Walter sensed his presence but could not touch him, and this made Walter lonely and morose.”
― Darcey Steinke, Milk: A Novel