The 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.
Gus the driver is everywhere and yet he appears nowhere, not in portraits or photographs, not even in the stories of men like Barthelme and Carver, who were all about guys with jobs and prospects like Gus's but who insisted on more sorrow, more angst, than Gus remotely manifests. If Gus weeps sometimes for no reason, if he stands despairing in the aisle of a Wal-Mart, it is not apparent in his daily demeanor...
Michael CunninghamShe thinks how much more space a being occupies in life than it does in death; how much illusion of size is contained in gestures and movements, in breathing. Dead, we are revealed in our true dimensions, and they are surprisingly modest.
Michael CunninghamСтаята бе изпълнена с онази особена тишина, която се среща в хотелите, специално отглеждана тишина, съвършено неестествена, плътно затиснала субстрат от скърцане, скрибуцане, бълбукане, клокочене и звуци от колела върху килим.
Michael Cunningham...когато погледна към новата книга върху нощното шкафче, поставена върху книгата, която довърши снощи, тя автоматично протегна ръка към нея, сякаш четенето бе нейното най-важно задължение през деня и единствения приложим начин да осъществи прехода от съня към задълженията.
Michael CunninghamShe'd never imagined it like this-when she thought of someone (a woman like herself)losing her mind, she'd imagined shrieks and wails, hallucinations; but at that moment it had seemed clear that there was another way, far quieter; a way that was numb and hopeless, flat, so much so that an emotion as strong as sorrow would have been a relief.
Michael CunninghamShe will never mention to Leonard that she'd planned on fleeing, even for a few hours. As if he were the one in need of care and comfort--as if he were the one in danger.
Michael CunninghamClarissa, sane Clarissa-exultant, ordinary Clarissa- will go on, loving London, loving her life of ordinary pleasure, and someone else, a deranged poet, a visionary, will be the one to die.
Michael CunninghamWhat lives undimmed in Clarissa's mind more than three decades later is a kiss at dusk on a patch of dead grass, and a walk around the pond as mosquitoes droned in the darkening air. There is still that singular perfection, and it's perfect in part because it seemed, at the time, so clearly to promise more. Now she knows. That was the moment. There has been no other.
Michael CunninghamWhat he remembers with perfect clarity is sitting on a train headed for Madrid, feeling the sort of happiness he imagines spirits might feel, freed of their earthly bodies but still possessed of their essential selves.
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