This love of theirs, with its reassuring domesticity and its easy silences, its permanence, has yoked Sally directly to the machinery of mortality itself. Now there is a loss beyond imagining.
Michael CunninghamShe is overtaken by a sensation of unbeing. There is no other word for it.
Michael CunninghamStichwörter: unreality
You grow weary of being treated as the enemy simply because you are not young anymore; because you dress unexceptionally.
Michael CunninghamStichwörter: aging
There’s just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined.
Michael CunninghamStichwörter: life
She wants to have baked a cake that banishes sorrow, even if only for a little while.
Michael CunninghamThe book worm, the foreign-looking one with the dark, close set eyes an the Roman nose, who had never been sought after or cherished; who had always been left alone, to read.
Michael CunninghamShe has failed. She wishes she didn't mind. Something, she thinks, is wrong with her.
Michael CunninghamStichwörter: life sadness failure
Remember, Peter: you are some hybrid of friend and hired help. You have latitude, but you can't get uppity.
Michael CunninghamYou live with the threat of my extinction. I live with it too.
Michael CunninghamThe world is full of Guses--good-looking boys and girls who've been dealt the best possible genetic hand by parents and grandparents and great-grandparents who have been doing neither well nor badly for generations; who engender these decent kids and give them just enough to survive in the world but no more--no spectacular beauty, no uncontainable brilliance, no kingly, unstoppable ambition.
Isn't it the task of art to acclaim these people, to ennoble them? Consider Olympia. A girl of the streets becomes a deity.
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