I should like to bury something precious in every place where I’ve been happy and then, when I was old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember.
Conversation should be like juggling; up go the balls and the plates, up and over, in and out, good solid objects that glitter in the footlights and fall with a bang if you miss them.
…as I took the cigarette from my lips and put it in hers, I caught a thin bat’s squeak of sexuality, inaudible to any but me.
She seemed to say: ‘Look at me. I have done my share. I am beautiful. It is something quite out of the ordinary, this beauty of mine. I am made for delight. But what do I get out of it? Where is my reward?’
Again. I beg everything again.
Maybe nubile teeny girl fans with Goth eye makeup, and stick marks tattooed on their necks like the Frankenstein creature, and dotted lines around their wrists with CUT HERE instructions, will visit his grave and leave him tributes composed of withered roses and whitened chicken bones. They send stuff like that to him already, and he’s not even dead.
My most favourite passage in the collection.
We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print…
We lived in the gaps between the stories.
This one’s being added to the favourites list.
I love this recent quote from the author.. (from an interview featured in the latest issue of Lenny)…
With my novels, I tend to put my historian’s hat on and take the facts as far as they go. Was there a train that afternoon at three o’clock? What was the name of the bird that would have been flying by? Then I think, Great, whip off my historian’s hat, put on my fiction writer’s hat, and I’m thrilled to be making it all up again.
This was fun, and an easy read. My favourite quote, although quite long, was and is…
…not everything had to come out in the wash. That sometimes stains and imperfections were a good thing. That was why she surrounded herself with vintage things, old things, old memories. Because sometimes that stubborn old stain was proof you’d lived, proof that you’d been somewhere, done something. That you’d made certain choices. That you were present. That missing button on a blouse after a night of pure passion with a lover. That wine stain from a friend’s dinner party. The ink mark at the bottom of your handbag after you’d written your mother’s birthday card.
Isn’t it a noble thing all the same, loneliness? There’s a dignity in it, at least. You can’t make a show of yourself when you’re on your own. You can’t sound stupid opposite nobody. People are better inside your head. When you’re longing for them, they’re perfect.
This book broke my heart. Highly recommend it.