Tessa Hadley Quotes

But she wasn't in love, though she had been ready to be. Love sank down gently from where it had been swollen in expectation
she imagined a red balloon deflating to a foolish remnant. (In the cave, 171)

Ally wasn't disappointed in the writers: she hadn't expected anything from them in the first place; it hadn't occurred to her to be interested in writers as individuals beyond their work. To her relief no one whose books she'd read ever came to the centre, although sometimes she had to pretend to have read the writers who did. The writers could be fairly crazy, too; you had to be vigilant not to trip over their vanity or anxiety. Luckily, most of her favourites were dead. (She's the one, 151)

But now everything was lost: all the scattered effect of a real person, complicated beyond counting. (Post production, 197)

I probably reread novels more often than I read new ones. The novel form is made for rereading. Novels are by their nature too long, too baggy, too full of things – you can't hold them completely in your mind. This isn't a flaw – it's part of the novel's richness: its length, multiplicity of aspects, and shapelessness resemble the length and shapelessness of life itself. By the time you reach the end of the novel you will have forgotten the beginning and much of what happens in between: not the main outlines but the fine work, the detail and the music of the sentences – the particular words, through which the novel has its life. You think you know a novel so well that there must be nothing left in it to discover but the last time I reread Emma I found a little shepherd boy, brought into the parlour to sing for Harriet when she's staying with the Martin family. I'm sure he was never in the book before.

Andy was receptive, like a deep vessel into which life was poured. If this terrible particular thing hadn't been poured into her, she would have been happier
it goes without saying
but less of a person. She was filled out by her fate. I actually think that this is quite rare, the capacity to become the whole shape of the accidents that happen to you.

Once they had been equal in their separate freedoms. They had set out to have children as lightly as if they were playing house, and now her necessarily domestic life bored him, and she was bound to it in her body and imagination. This imbalance was fated, built into their biology.

I hate to think of you stuck here all day every day, doing nothing with that brilliant brain of yours."
"It never was brilliant. Anyway, who keeps these books to see who's used themselves wisely and who's wasted?

But what if the novels were right? What if sentimentality was closer to the truth of life and cynicism was the evasion

The gracious thing to do was to accept the beauty of the opportunity if it was given

What use was her grown-up knowledge
acquired through such initiations, at such risk
in this world of infants, who had to be kept safe?

Part of the oddity of marriage, she thought, was in how unwise it was to attend too intently to the other person. In order for love to survive, you had to close yourself off to a certain extent.

It's painful and terrible that youth is over, and with it that whole game of looking and longing and vying for attention, hoping for something, for some absolute transformation of everything. But it's also a reprieve to be let off that hook and know that you're simply in your own hands at last

Other grown-ups, especially women, had learned somehow to live on the surfaces of their bodies, controlling them and presenting a prepared version of them to the world

The past is closed up inside its own depressing little museum of faded styles and codes and anticipations; you can't re-enter it

We're wedged tight into the accident of our moment in history.