The worst cynicism: a belief in luck.
A lot of widows feel that they have betrayed their spouse by continuing to live. It's deranged thinking. I know that, but that doesn't stop you feeling it.
For that was mom's trump card: she was the mother, and so possessed a mysterious and unquestioned authority. Dad was the boss, but Mom was the power.
Laughter too depends upon memory—a memory of previous laughter. Dr.
My God, the sense of fatigue...
My belief is that art should not be comforting; for comfort, we have mass entertainment and one another. Art should provoke, disturb, arouse our emotions, expand our sympathies in directions we may not anticipate and may not even wish.
He thinks: He could give up. He could admit defeat. But he will not admit defeat. He is still alive.
Our enemy is by tradition our savior, in preventing us from superficiality.
But thinking it my duty to stretch the flayed skin of my childhood on some sort of skeleton of convention.
When I wrote 'We Were The Mulvaneys,' I was just old enough to look back upon my own family life and the lies of certain individuals close to me, with the detachment of time. I wanted to tell the truth about secrets: How much pain they give, yet how much relief, even happiness we may feel when at last the motive for secrecy has passed.
For madness must be punished in a world in which mere sanity is prized. The revenge of the ordinary upon the gifted.
Among many of my friends and acquaintances, I seem to be one of the very few individuals who felt or feels no ambivalence about my mother. All my feelings for my mother were positive, very strong and abiding.
Burnaby wasn't a Christian but he behaved like a Christian is supposed to behave which made Colborne, a Christian, uncomfortable.
If I could open a vein. Not to inject any shit, I will never weaken like that again, but just to feel the kick of it, the old memory. So this numbness lifts. So I could get back there easier.
If food is poetry, is not poetry also food?
It may be that actual tears have stained the tile floors or soaked into the carpets of such places. It may be that these tears can never be removed. And everywhere the odor of melancholy, that is the very odor of memory.
I love insult, it's always honest.
That I was sleeping at a time when my husband was dying is so horrible a thought, I can't confront it.
The writer understands how deeply mysterious the 'familiar' really is. How strangely opaque, what we've seen a thousand times. And how inconsolable a loss, when the taken-for-granted is finally taken from us.
In a family, what isn't spoken is what you listen for. But the noise of a family is to drown it out.
It feels good, honey, but it isn't love.