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 CunninghamMots clés unreality
You grow weary of being treated as the enemy simply because you are not young anymore; because you dress unexceptionally.
Michael CunninghamMots clés 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 CunninghamMots clés 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 CunninghamMots clés 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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