because we watched her so closely out of the corners of our eyes, everything she did made too much noise, her cigarette smoke got into everything, she drank too much wine at dinner.
Jeffrey EugenidesDr. Phil never talked about Smyrna and left the room if anyone did. He never mentioned his murdered sons and daughters. Maybe this was the reason for his survival.
Jeffrey EugenidesIf you want to have a career, my advice is don't get married. You think things have changed and there's some kind of gender equality now, that men are different, but I've got news for you. They're not.
Jeffrey EugenidesMy change from girl to boy was far less dramatic than the distance anybody travels from infancy to adulthood.
Jeffrey EugenidesIt was something every child knew how to do, maintain a direct and full connection with the world. Somehow you forgot about it as you grew up, and had to learn it again.
Jeffrey Eugenides...a large contingent of people majoring in English by default. Because they weren't left-brained enough for science, because history was too dry, philosophy too difficult, geology too petroleum-oriented, and math too mathematical--because they weren't musical, artistic, financially motivated, or really all that smart, these people were pursuing university degrees doing something no different from what they'd done in first grade: reading stories. English was what people who didn't know what to major in majored in.
Jeffrey EugenidesIf you weren't a lucky child, you didn't know you weren't lucky until you got older. And then it was all you ever thought about.
Jeffrey EugenidesSome cities have fallen into ruin and some are built upon ruins but others contain their own ruins while still growing.
Jeffrey EugenidesHer head appears to be on fire but that is only a trick of the light. It was June 13, eighty-three degrees out, under sunny skies.
Jeffrey EugenidesThere had never been a funeral in our town before, at least not during our lifetimes. The majority of dying had happened during the Second World War when we didn't exist and our fathers were impossibly skinny young men in black-and-white photographs—dads on jungle airstrips, dads with pimples and tattoos, dads with pinups, dads who wrote love letters to the girls who would become our mothers, dads inspired by K rations, loneliness and glandular riot in malarial air into poetic reveries that ceased entirely once they got back home.
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