Garrett
First read: May 3, 2010
Second read: June 30, 2017 - July 5, 2017 (Stephen King Book Club)
Probably at least the fifth time I've read this since the fall of 2002 — still as beautiful as ever. One passage in particular leaps out at me and, in truth, always has, but given the last 10 months has new resonance:
“There's just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more.”
Favorite Excerpt: “Fashion is an expression of boredom, of restlessness. The successful designer understands the ferocity of that boredom and provides it with new places in which to calm its rage for a while. Even as Hyperion free-style dresses were displayed in photo spreads in international magazines and promoted in vigorous poster campaigns, the designer was preparing his next step. IN his eagerly awaited spring/summer collection, he proclaimed the final liberation of costume from the female body. The new dress completed the urge to concealment by developing the bodice upward into a complete covering for the face and head. Now the Hyperion dress entirely enclosed the wearer, who was provided with artful spaces for the mouth, nostrils, and eyes. THe new top quickly developed a life of its own. It seemed determined to deny the existence of the head, to use the area between collarbone and scalp as a transitional element, bye expanding the idea of a dress upward to include the space above the height of the wearer. Meanwhile the openings for eyes and nostrils, which had drawn attention to the concealed face and threatened to turn the dress into a species of mask, were replaced by an opaque fabric that permitted one-way vision. Women, who had gradually been disappearing into the hidden spaces of the new style, had at last become invisible.”
Favorite Excerpt
I hugged her again. “Go on. Check in. Buy magazines. Watch CNN. Fly well.”
“All right, Daddy. It was amazing.”
“You're amazing.”
She gave me a hearty smack on the mouth–to make up for the one her mother had held back on, perhaps–and went in through the sliding doors. She turned back once and waved to me, by then little more than a girl-shape behind the polarized glass. I wish with all my heart that I could have seen her better, because I never saw her again.
How had she ended up like this, imprisoned in the role of harridan? Once upon a time, her brash manner had been a mere posture—a convenient and amusing way for an insecure teenage bride, newly arrived in America, to disguise her crippling shyness. People had actually enjoyed her vituperation back then, encouraged it and celebrated it. She had carved out a minor distinction for herself as a “character”: the cute little english girl with the chutzpah and the longshoreman's mouth. ”Get Audrey in here,” they used to cry whenever someone was being an ass. ”Audrey'll take him down a peg or two.”
But somewhere along the way, when she hadn't been paying attention, her temper had ceased to be a beguiling party act that could be switched on and off at will. It had begun to express authentic resentments: boredom with motherhood, fury at her husband's philandering, despair at the pettiness of her domestic fate. She hadn't noticed the change at first. Like an old lady who persists in wearing the Jungle Red lipstick of her glory days, she had gone on for a time, fondly believing that the stratagems of her youth were just as appealing as they had ever been. By the time she woke up and discovered that people had taken to making faces at her behind her back—that she was no longer a sexy young woman with a charmingly short fuse but a middle-aged termagant—it was too late. Her anger had become a part of her. It was a knotted thicket in her gut, too dense to be cut down and too deeply entrenched in the loamy soil of her disappointments to be uprooted.
I reread this book in about two days in preparation for the movie. The first time I read it, I did so on the subway while commuting to Queens from Manhattan for an internship. Eventually (probably about two thirds of the way through the book) I had to stop reading it in public. I'm not exactly the biggest fan of crying in front of strangers. Fortunately I reached the end of the book in the comfort and privacy of my studio apartment (my creepy World Of Warcraft playing roommate happened to be gone) so that I could ugly-cry in peace. We're talking drool, people. Not cute.
Bottom line: one of the most beautiful and heartbreaking books I've ever read. Forget the movie — though entertaining and made 6 of the 8 people I saw it with last night cry — but it's middling in comparison to the beauty of Niffenegger's novel. A must-read.
This gorgeously-written horror-inducing book should be required reading on a global scale. The first time I can recall diving into a book and thinking to myself “I will be a different person when I finish this.”
“Cassie's eyes finally focused on mine, and I was shaken by the concentrated, diamond-hard hatred. ‘Legion,' she said.”
———
“If she had hurt me, I could have forgiven her without even having to think about it; but I couldn't forgive her for being hurt.”
“Why wouldn't you tell someone you loved them? Once you loved someone, you repeated it until they were tired of hearing it. You said it until it ceased to have meaning. Why not? Of course, you goddamn did.”
1st read: 6/23/2010 - 7/16/2010
2nd read: 3/11/2013 - 4/4/2013
3rd read: - 5/1/2018 - 5/19-2018
Favorite excerpt:
“He inched towards her until their sides were touching, arm to arm, leg to bare leg. Sam? she whispered. Do you think— This was Jollie Lambird, whom he had been in love with since the second grade, and he was ready to answer any question she might have for him. But he didn't hear the rest of it because just then he kissed her, a kiss that may have lasted for hours while porch lights shuddered and went out across the neighborhood. While stars themselves lit up or went out, stars that had not yet been given names by which to remember them. It was the last week of summer before the seventh grade, and afterward he walked her back to her house. He kissed her again, shyly and gently, now with the thrill of knowing that he had a small claim on her affections. He ran the rest of the way home, leaping over toys left lying in yards, over rosebushes and garden chairs, running through countless dark yards, his heart pounding in his chest, each step an exercise of joy, and that, really, was the very last he remembered, running through the dark before the world stopped, and in the empty silence all he could hear was the sound of his pulse.”
“For it is a deep and human truth that most souls upon the earth are not at ease unless they find themselves safe in the hands of a force far greater than themselves.”
“She smiles at the version of herself at that time of pain, so young that she believed she could die of love. Foolish creature, old Marie would say to that child. Open your hands and let your life go. It has never been yours to do with what you will.”
