If they’re together long enough, every couple has one conversation over and over. This was ours.
Frederick WeiselTag: conversation couple teller weisel frederick-weisel
Nico’s hair was combed straight up, stiff with mousse, the tips dyed the color of traffic cones.
Frederick WeiselTag: hair teller weisel frederick-weisel mousse traffic-cones
Every American autobiography, someone once said, is about one thing—escape. Look into the frightened heart of an American life, and you’ll find a compulsion to flee—a seed planted in the national character at the start by those ships sailing out of Europe and landing on our shores.
— Teller: A Novel
Tag: autobiography escape teller weisel frederick-weisel
Aren’t autobiographies born in a question we ask ourselves: how did I get to this point? Don’t we look back over the path and tell ourselves a story? This is how it happened. This is who I am.
Frederick WeiselTag: story autobiography teller weisel frederick-weisel
The problem with escaping is that we leave behind us, even among those we love, different versions of the truth and everything we couldn’t bring ourselves to say.
Frederick WeiselTag: truth love escape teller weisel frederick-weisel
I lived that year on top of a wooden tower in an area east of Santa Rosa known as the Valley of the Moon.
Frederick WeiselTag: teller weisel frederick-weisel santa-rosa valley-of-the-moon
In March of that year, I saw a man named Paul Barkley shot to death. It happened late at night in the parking lot of a café in Santa Rosa called Galileo’s.
Frederick WeiselTag: murder mystery teller weisel
As the chapters took shape, a change came over her. It was the double-sided recognition that this book, the last that she would write, might achieve esteem and success equal to her great novel, but that its emotional heart would lie in her own unhappiness for having failed to find the one thing she wanted. For the first time she was a character in her own writing, and her frailties and mistakes were trapped on the page by the beauty and unsparing focus of her prose. Towards the end it was a battle to finish a page. The story was the story she had told herself for decades, deep within her own mind, and now as it grew, line by line, on the paper before her, she wrestled with each turn in the path all over again, as if it were still possible to change its course with the power of her words.
Frederick WeiselTag: words writing story book failing teller weisel frederick-weisel
The sun had already set behind the mountains, and the sky had been drained of color. The trellises of sauvignon blanc flowed down the hill in even rows toward the valley floor. Whatever I was looking for, it wasn’t outside. As far as I could tell, the grapes were minding their own business.
Frederick WeiselTag: sunset grapes teller weisel frederick-weisel sauvignon-blanc
At first, he talked about the flowers in the garden behind his country house in Surrey. His voice still had its Midlands accent but was soft now and barely audible. He knew the plants by name and took a few minutes with each of them: ageratum, coreopsis, echinacea, rudbeckia. The yarrow, he said, had rose-red flowers on two-foot stems. Achillea millefolium, the plant Achilles used to heal wounds.
Frederick WeiselTag: flowers plants voice teller weisel frederick-weisel
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