It was a nice change to read some short stories.
Introduction, p. xiii-xiv, "...I understand the mountain and the novel to be impossible in everyday human terms. Both emerge from a distance that can be approached only by faith. And when you get there, all you find is yourself. The beauty or terror you experience is your understanding of how far you've come, your being stretched further than is humanly possible...I cannot climb the mountain that sits in the sea, but from where I stand it comes to me in detritus and dreams."
"Coins" by Mona Simpson - Page 30, "My employer works and she has the American problem of being guilty. But you should not be guilty to your children. It is for them that you are working. I am here for my own, to pay for their professional education."
I found "Kavita Through Glass" by Emily Ishem Raboteau flowed seamlessly. I just fell into and unconsciously re-read two pages now. Page 52, "...the color white. She had decorated their apartment sparely. The little furniture there was was white. So were the appliances, the dishes, the bedspread, the towels, and the sheets. Hassan was made to keep his library in a closet fitted with shelves so as not to break up the whiteness of the walls with the colored spines of his books." Page 53, "Once in a while he would find arabesque strands of his wife's black hair shed on the white furniture or the white bathroom tiles and he would read them like calligraphy. Today she wants me to pay the electric bill, he would figure, or today she wants me to bring home a cantaloupe. Almost always he was right."
"Marie-Ange's Ginen" by Marilene Phipps, page 88, "We are the people who can live how no people should, suffer what no people can spell out, the sacrificial lambs never comfortable on earth - home is not on earth. This is the meaning we bring. That is the mission."
"The Shell Collector" by Anthony Doerr, page 193, "...to find a shell, to feel it, to understand only on some unspeakable level why it bothered to be so lovely. What joy he found in that, what utter mystery.
Every six hours the tides plowed shelves of beauty onto the beaches of the world, and here he was, able to walk out into it, thrust his hands into it, spin a piece of it between his fingers. To gather up seashells - each one an amazement - to know their names, to drop them into a bucket: this was what filled his life, what overfilled it.
Some mornings, moving through the lagoon, Tumaini splashing comfortably ahead, he felt a nearly irresistible urge to bow down."
"Johnny Hamburger" by Rand Richards Cooper, page 203, "He was good at being Johnny Hamburger. But what's the use of being good at something worthless? It's like digging your own grave."
"The Bees", Dan Chaon, page 273, "Gene couldn't go anything right, it seemed, and when Mandy yelled at him it made his stomach clench with shame and inarticulate rage. I was trying, he would think, I was trying, damn it, and it was as if no matter what he did, it wouldn't turn out right. That feeling would sit heavily in his chest..."
In Contributors' Notes, Kevin Brockmeier wrote, "There is little other autobiography in the story. I was interested while I was writing it in memory and the failures of memory, in the contest between natural and artificial light, and in the difficulty people of deep feeling often have in communicating with each other, and I wanted the narrator's voice to have a sort of cradling effect on the reader." (page 329)