Sara Gruen Famous Quotes
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The whole thing's illusion, [Jacob], and there's nothing wrong with that. It's what people want from us. It's what they expect.
He's paragon schnitzophonic." "He's what?!" "Paragon schnitzophonic," repeats Uncle Al. "You mean paranoid schizophrenic?
I just think I'm better equipped to make a study of human personality than trying to get into the mind of animals.
You do right by me, I'll show you a life most suckers can't even dream of.
To be sure, I'm not perfect wife material: I'm neurotic. I'm compulsive. I speak before I think and can't cook worth a damn. I'm messy and germaphobic all at once, and it's not entirely unheard of for me to get hold of the wrong end of the stick and then hang there like a pitbull.
When will people learn that just because you can make something doesn't mean you should?
Actually, it's not so much that I've forgotten. It's more like I've stopped keeping track.
A gaggle of old ladies is glued to the window at the end of the hall like children or jailbirds. They're spidery and frail, their hair as fine as mist. Most of them are a good decade younger than me, and this astounds me. Even as your body betrays you, your mind denies it.
There are five of them now, white headed old things huddled together and pointing crooked fingers at the glass.
We traveled for two weeks with a pickled hippo.
It seems natural to surround my fictional world with animals because my reality is full of them. When I'm sitting there conceiving a story, they just pop up.
I am further back, surrounded on all sides by wailing men, their faces shiny with tears. Uncle Al promised three dollars and a bottle of Canadian whiskey to the man who puts on the best show. You've never seen such grief
even the dogs were howling.
That's my girl," he said, struggling upright. "Always up for adventure. You're not like the other girls, you know. There's not an ounce of fun in them. That's why Hank won't marry Violet, of course. He's holding out for another you. Only there isn't one. I've got the one and only.
What else do I have to offer? Nothing happens to me anymore. That's the reality of getting old, and I guess that's really the crux of the matter. I'm not ready to be old yet.
I'm glad nothing requires my intervention, because I'm trying hard to maintain my composure. This is the first time I've ever seen a woman naked and I don't think I'll ever be the same.
The sky the sky- same as it always was.
After sixty-one years together, she simply clutched my hand and exhaled.
I'm glad has promised three dollars and a bottle of Canadian whiskey to the man who puts on the best show. You've never seen such grief-even the dogs are howling.
Ellis had slept through the entire thing. That, or he was dead, but I saw no reason to check. If he was dead, he'd still be dead in the morning.
In all its beautiful, tragic fragility, there was still life.
exactly what she was really doing. It took but
It's just a crazy damned life, that's all ...
Always carry a large flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite, and further, always carry a small snake.
He whispers in her ear, and she basks in his attention, trumpeting happily at the sight of him.
Doesn't she remember?
And Flying Changes. Her works have been translated into forty-three languages and have
I tend not to think about the reading public at all, or the business, when I'm writing.
Violet was nothing if not sensible. She didn't even approve when we pulled entirely harmless pranks, like hiding someone's yacht in the wrong slip, or turning the racquet club's pool water purple.
off, but Osgood, the photographer, was already snoring softly. He was in the center seat, wedged between John Thigpen and
At this moment, the story in his head was perfect. He also knew from experience that it would degenerate the second he started typing, because such was the nature of writing.
Life goes on with fragile normalcy.
Jacob: I've never seen so much manure. Wade: Baggage stock horses. They pack'em in 27 a car. Jacob: how do you stand the smell? Wade: what smell?
But it wasn't long before the old familiar discontent started creeping up on me. I suppose it was always there, somewhere in the background. All I've done, my whole life, is keep it temporarily at bay.
I stared at him for a long time. If he wanted to end his search for the beast, he need look no further than a mirror.
I stare at her for a long moment. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.
Sometimes the monotony of bingo and sing alongs, ancient dusty people parked in the hallway in wheelchairs makes me long for death, particularly when
remember that I'm one of the ancient dusty people, filed away like some worthless chotski.
But there's nothing to be done about it. All I can do is put in time waiting for the inevitable, observing as the ghosts of my past rattle around my vacuous present.
They crash and bang and make themselves at home, mostly because there's no competition. I've stopped fighting them. They're crashing and banging around in there now. Make yourselves at home, boys. Stay awhile. Oh, sorry - I see you already have.
Damn ghosts.
I stroke her lightly, memorizing her body. I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin. I lie motionless, savoring the feeling of her body against mine. I'm afraid to breathe in case I break the spell.
Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work, but important.
In seventy years, I've never told a blessed soul.
I have to convince myself that this is not a pointless life, even the body is telling me so.
age is a terrible theif
Sometimes I think that if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I'd choose the corn. Not that I wouldn't love to have a final roll in the hay - I am a man yet, and something never die - but the thought of those sweet kernels bursting between my teeth sure sets my mouth to watering. It's fantasy, I know that. Neither will happen. I just like to weight the options, as though I were standing in front of Solomon: a final roll in the hay or an ear of corn. What a wonderful dilemma. Sometimes I substitute an apple for the corn.
She blamed the lack of real flowers on both weather and the war, and instead put four or five pieces of coal in glass bowls, added water, salt, and ammonia, before finally pouring a mixture of violet and blue ink over them. It was a complete mystery to me how this alchemy would result in anything resembling flowers, but they were "blooming" within the hour.
The monster - if there was one - never revealed itself to me again. But what I had learned over the past year was that monsters abound, usually in plain sight.
That moment, the music screeched to a halt. There was an ungodly collision of brass, reed, and percussion - trombones and piccolos skidded into cacophony, a tuba farted, and the hollow clang of a cymbal wavered out of the big top, over our heads and into oblivion.
Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.
The more distressing the memory, the more persistent it's presence.
I strain to hear, but my old ears, for all their obscene hugeness, pick up nothing but snippets:
I think there is just a vein of humanity that really loves animals and really loves to read about them.
I had my whole life planned.. I knew exactly where it was taking me..
He only had the imperfect medium of words.
You work hard on a book and throw it out there and then it's beyond your control.
Afterward, I curl around her. We lie in silence until darkness falls, and then, haltingly, she begins to talk ... She speaks without need or even room for response, so I simply hold her and stroke her hair. She talks of the pain, grief, and horror of the past four years; of learning to cope with being the wife of a man so violent and unpredictable his touch made her skin crawl and of thinking, until quite recently, that she'd finally managed to do that. And then, finally, of how my appearance had forced her to realize she hadn't learned to cope at all.
But it all zipped by. One minute Marlena and I were up to our eyeballs, and the next thing we knew the kids were borrowing the car and fleeing the coop for college. And now, here I am. In my nineties and alone.
I cling to my anger with every ounce of humanity left in my ruined body, but it's no use. It slips away, like a wave from shore. I am pondering this sad fact when I realize the blackness of sleep is circling my head. It's been there awhile, biding its time and growing closer with each revolution. I give up on rage, which at this point has become a formality, and make a mental note to get angry again in the morning. Then I let myself drift, because there's really no fighting it.
All I can do is put in time waiting for the inevitable, observing as the ghost of my past rattle around my vacuous present. They crash and bang and make themselves at home, mostly because there's no competition. I've stopped fighting them. They're crashing and banging around in there now. Make yourselves at home, boys. Stay awhile. Oh, sorry- I see you already have. Damn ghost.
game? - but I wasn't shocked, as I once might
I roll onto my side and stare out the venetian blinds at the blue sky beyond. After a few minutes I'm lulled into a sort of peace. The sky, the sky
same as it always was.
She's not your friend. She's a barmaid.
The person following is never in control, which she knows full well and which is exactly why she does it.
But my darling was as frail as a bird. She died nine days later. After sixty-one years together, she simply clutched my hand and exhaled. Although
I reach for the napkin, and as I do I catch sight of my hands. They are knobby and crooked, thin-skinned, and - like my ruined face - covered with liver spots.
My face. I push the porridge aside and open my vanity mirror. I should know better by now, but somehow I still expect to see myself. Instead, I find an Appalachian apple doll, withered and spotty, with dewlaps and bags and long floppy ears. A few strands of white hair spring absurdly from its spotted skull.
I try to brush the hairs flat with my hand and freeze at the sight of my old hand on my old head. I lean close and open my eyes very wide, trying to see beyond the sagging flesh.
It's no good. Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes, I can't find myself anymore. When did I stop being me?
his hat from his head and presses it to his chest. I walk a few dozen yards from the train, climb the grassy bank, and sit rubbing my
For the rest of the night, all I could think about was how many heads had lain on those pillows before my own.
When I first submerged my feet into frigid water, they hurt so badly I yanked them out again. I persisted, dunking them for longer and longer periods, until the cold finally blistered.
Life is the most spectacular show on earth ♥
90/93-year-old Jacob wonders as he gazes at his aged reflection, 'When did I stop being me?
Beneath it was a photograph of Hank alone, standing shirtless on the deck of a sailboat with his hands on his hips.
Juliet is one of those rare novels that has it all: lush prose, tightly intertwined parallel narratives, intrigue, and historical detail all set against a backdrop of looming danger. Anne Fortier casts a new light on one of history's greatest stories of passion. I was swept away.
Sometimes when you get older - and I'm not talking about you, I'm talking generally, because everyone ages differently - things you think on and wish on start to seem real. And then you believe them, and before you know it they're part of your history, and if someone challenges you on them and says they're not true - why, then you get offended because you can't remember the first part. All you know is that you've been called a liar.
Afterward she lies nestled against me, her hair tickling my face. I stroke her lightly, memorizing her body. I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin.
...strangely alone in the most public of places.
To say that I wished I wasn't there would be a ludicrous understatement, but I'd only ever had the illusion of choice: We have to do this, Hank had said. It's for Ellis. To refuse would have been an act of calculated cruelty. And so, because of my husband's war with his father and their insane obsession with a mythical monster, we'd crossed the Atlantic at the very same time a real madman, a real monster, was attempting to take over the world for his own reasons of ego and pride.
They grew fat and happy
the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.
It was full of luxurious trappings and shiny baubles, and that had blinded me to the fact that nothing about it was real.
I paused beneath the arched entrance, where the drawbridge had once been, imagining all the people who had passed in and out over the centuries, every one of them carrying a combination of desire, hope, jealousy, despair, grief, love, and every other human emotion; a combination that made each one as unique as a snowflake, yet linked all of them inextricably to every other human being from the dawn of time to the end of it.
I just can't. I'm married. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.
All right. Let's give you something to tell your grandkids about. Or great-grandkids. Or great-great-grandkids."
I snort with glee, delirious with excitement. Charlie winks and pours me another finger's worth of whiskey. Then, on second thought, he tips the bottle again.
I reach out and grab its neck. "Better not," I say. "Don't want to get tipsy and break a hip.
At home, she sulked with extravagance, and I learned early that silence was anything but peaceful. She was always upset about some slight, real or imagined, and more than capable of creating a full-blown crisis out of thin air.
When did I stop being me?
His mother was exacting revenge because he'd dared to marry me, and his father - well, we weren't exactly sure. Either
And August was a force. Charming, gregarious,
I'm truly grateful for my microwave, which allows me to easily clarify butter, steam vegetables, and - when I am really lazy - feed my three kids in less than five minutes.
My father felt it was his duty to continue to treat animals long after he stopped getting paid. He couldn't stand by and watch a horse colic or a cow labor with a breech calf even though it meant personal ruin. The parallel is undeniable. There is no question I am the only thing standing between these animals and the business practices of August and Uncle Al, and what my father would do - what my father would want me to do - is look after them, and I am filled with that absolute and unwavering conviction. No matter what I did last night, I cannot leave these animals. I am their shepherd, their protector. And it's more than a duty. It's a covenant with my father.
I came home poorer by several hundred dollars and richer by more books than I could carry.
Honey, I plan to marry you the moment the ink is dry on that death certificate.
It seems there's nothing so good or pure it can't be taken without a moment's notice. And then in the end, it all gets taken anyway.
I want to knit socks for the soldiers."
"It's not as easy as that," she said, looking at me strangely. "It's difficult to turn a good heel. There are competitions over it.
With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.
Is where you're from the place you're leaving or where you have roots?
Gorillas are in danger of being wiped out by the Ebola virus. I feel like we have limited time to get to know them and understand them and they're going to disappear - that's terrifically sad. Wouldn't it be great if we could stop that?
I realize the blackness of sleep is circling my head. It's been there a while, biding its time and growing closer with each revolution. I give up on rage, which at this point has become a formality, and make a mental note to get angry in the morning.
ones I had watched.