Joan Wickersham Famous Quotes
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The word "miss" is so wistful. As is the word "wistful," for that matter. They both have sighs embedded in them, that "iss" sound. Which also sounds like if.
My feelings-let's hold on to this idea of them as shuffling Victorians, let's make them servants, an entire uniformed household staff- were fresh, raw, perpetually startled.They weren't sensible. But they behaved themselves for a while. They were frank, earthy even, among themselves; but they were discreet. They were invisible, I wasn't even required to know their names. I underestimated their docility and overestimated my own power, and like all fables about arrogance, this one turned menacing.
A love story - your own, or anyone else's - is interior, hidden. It can never be accurately reported, only imagined. It is all dreams and invention. It's guesswork.
But who is ever able to apply to her own current love affair a word like "similar"?
Young" and "Poor" sounded so promising, the way my mother always told the story. Temporary conditions: poignant "befores" that existed only to contrast with the triumphant "afters.
A story went around that someone had asked Mozart how he intended to refute his detractors.
"I will refute them with new works," he said.
It was a confident, valiant thing for him to say, everyone thought. I thought so too, when I invented the story; and I still believe it today. (172)
There is also something deeply lovely about uncertainty: the possibility of optimism.
Time and judgment collaborate to produce farce, and farce in turn contains much truth; major characters upon the stage may turn out to be lackeys in disguise, while the figures we have overlooked in the midst of the frenetic action unmask and reveal themselves as divinities. (160)
Those moments of knowing are sharp and merciless, but then they fade out, like stars when the sky gets light in the morning. You know, and then you don't know.
And while some healing does happen, it isn't a healing of redemption or epiphany. It's more like the slow absorption of a bruise.
It's Violent.
You imagine it deafening, red, boiling-hot. It's like a comic book: the bright colors, the crude outlines, the words in capital letters: BANG!SMASH!CRUNCH! You think "smithereens."
You crave the explosion.
