← Vie’s Library
Eventually loneliness and snow became the same thing in her mind, lighter than air, made of nothing; only upon tackling the stuff did you realize it had piled too heavy to yield.
gradually you give more of your life to art, you begin to subtract your life so it becomes such an emptiness you dare not look upon it. Slowly,
Like a magpie, an ant, an earthworm, a bee, collecting and gathering, moving one more crumb of your life into art, one crumb of ordinary life into dream life, one crumb of reality into unreality,
She thought that this was what people spoke of when they spoke about love: You were outwardly more adult and treated with greater consideration, but secretly you were more childlike, more free, more full of laughter. When you were alone, you felt and lived like a serious, curbed adult, but meanwhile
She imagined putting an ink pen into the black bloom of a watercolor cloud in the wet sky. It was a sharp desire that surprised her.
it was more potent because memory of violence builds upon memory of violence.
Terrible things happen in the heat of an argument between a married couple. Mama ventured into the icy bathroom to take a shower so as to force herself to disengage and bring down the register of rage between them
Because Papa felt guilty, he felt resentful. Because he felt resentful, he wanted his wife to soften this feeling of his, to agree it was an ordinary drunken disagreement, to which they should pay no attention.
Maybe it was his mother forbidding her son to marry me because she was so damaged by her own cruel fate that she wished to destroy the happiness of everyone else.”
You could always find a person to converse with over the larger matters—a government scandal, the delayed monsoon—but it was the tiny concerns, the moment’s observations, that you couldn’t save up to tell, for you didn’t even recognize their full potential to add meaning to life unless you articulated their humor, tragedy, menace, or charm.