"It seemed to him that much human effort went into separating men from women, and he often wondered why and to what effectiveness."
"The sisters, and Malcolm too, made the most of their opportunities, never suspecting that their opportunities were limited."
"Kisses can be dropped on the tops of heads, and news brought from one person's world to another, but in the end it's a matter of waiting things out in an improvised shelter and thinking as kindly of yourself as possible."
"Other people - through carelessness or luck or distraction or necessity - invented keys, chairs, wheels, thermometers and the theory of evolution."
"She was at an age when eating and drinking should be done in private."
"Everywhere he sees slackers, defilers, and stumblers. His anger blazes just thinking of them."
"He would also like to tell them that other people's lives are seldom as settled as they appear."
"They would be disinclined to discuss between them how they've arrived at these harmonious choices in the matter of playgoing, how they are both a little proud, in fact, of their taste for serious drama, proud in the biblical pride sense."
"Not one of us was going to get what we wanted."
"The shriveled fate he sometimes sees for himself can be postponed if only he puts his mind to it."
""Milk ice bread beer," murmurs the exhausted Barbara, giving the phrase a heaving tune. She is diverted by the thought of these four purposeful commodities traded to a diminished and deprived public."
"Almost all her conversations are with herself."
"Prestologs floor him completely, the whole idea of manufacturing something for the purpose of burning it up."
""If you lose something," a girl named Patsy Tobin told her when she was about seven or eight, "just shut your eyes and pray to St. Anthony.""
"She's glad at these times that she has her work to distract her and deaden her thoughts."
"But the truth is, though it is very seldom admitted to, there is very little anyone can do for anyone else."
"Accustomed to Meershank's activity, she found its cessation worrying. She connected it with depression, and being a woman, particularly the woman she was, she linked his depression with herself, some failing on her part, some act omitted."
"The authentic world will sweep them away, attributing their brief incandescence to the lamplight or the shift of weather or the conjoined sense of having escaped what they didn't even know they dreaded."
"So this was what work was: a tw0-way bargain people made with the world, a way to reduce time to rubble."
"We hang on tighter to each other, since all we know of consequence tells us that we may not be this lavishly favored again."
"I loved you more than the others, but, like a monk, allowed myself no distinctions."
"They know after all this time about love - that it's dim and unreliable and little more than a reflection on the wall. It is also capricious, idiotic, sentimental, imperfect and inconstant, and most often seems to be the exclusive preserve of others."
"His disappointment, his difficulty, his lies, his drunkenness, his life sliding away from him down a long blind chute, made him decide that the time had come to buy a house."
"One year she sat down at Grandfather Westfield's roll-top desk and wrote 175 cards. So many friends, so many acquaintances! Still, she paused, lifting her head and melodramatically said to herself, "I am a lonely woman.""
"He wondered sometimes, when he went off in the mornings, especially in the winter, if work wasn't just a way of coping with time."
"That winter they sanded the living-room floor by hand. Later, this became their low-water mark: "Remember when we were so broke we couldn't afford to rent a floor sander?"
"The bundled luggage, the weight of the camera around the neck, the sheer cost of air fare make travelers eager to mill expansive commentary from minor observation."
"Their soft-sided luggage, their tennis rackets, their New York pallor and anxious brows expose in Josephe a buried vein of sadness, and one day she notices something frightening: 109 passengers step off the New York plane, and each of them - without exception - is wearing blue jeans."
""You're lucky to have a child. That's something I'm sorry I missed." Gweneth said this even though it wasn't true. (The lie bothered her not at all since she knew it did people good to be fulsomely envied.)"
""I don't have anything to show!" she confessed to an early lover, not sure whether she meant silverware or children or that hard lacquer she thought of as happiness."
"In this letter from Japan, she describes a curious mystical experience that caused her not exactly panic and not precisely pleasure, but that connected her for an instant with an area of original sensation, a rare enough event at our age."
"Walking along dark streets always made Stanley think of how piteously men and women struggle to make themselves known to one another, how lonely they can be."
"He spoke as though compelled to explain to us his exact reason for being where he was at that moment."
"He wondered if he were acquiring a reputation for stoicism, that contemptible trait."
"Print is her way of entering and escaping the world."
"Max laughed at that, laughed harder than I had expected. I gave him a small smile in return. He stopped laughing then and gulped his coffee, struggling to straighten his face. We have to be terribly careful after forty years together. We are both so easily injured."
"For my husband, Max, spartanness serves as a set of crossed fingers; he mustn't give way to greed or a taste for luxury, or it will eat him up the way it ate Bellow and Steinbeck."
"I have attempted in my life - at least in the last thirty years - to write one sonnet every fourteen days, and it is my especial (see Fowler's on the difference between especial and special) pleasure to spread the work out over the available working days."
"Max must surely hear the scattershot of my neighborhood greetings, so fond in their expression and so traditionally patterned, exactly what healthy, seasoned, amiable women learn to say in such chapters of their lives."
"The day bloomed into mildness, October 7, one year and one month after the September 11 tragedy - event, spectacle, whatever you choose to call it."
"And sadness had shrunk, become miniaturized and narrowly defined, a syndrome, a pathology - whereas once, in another time, in a more exuberant century, in a more innocent age, there existed great gusts of oxygen inside the sadness of ordinary people, carpenters, tradesmen, housewives and the like. Sadness was dignified; it was referred to as melancholy; it was described as autumnal in tome and tinged with woodsmoke."
"Earlier, while the men were doing the dishes and the kids were tearing around the house, I told her I was thinking of going back to work as soon as possible, not waiting till next fall after all. She listened hard. She has a lot of strong curiosity about her. "Don't rush," she said. "Work is only work.""
"Kay slipped quickly past a row of women who were saying things women had always said. The same things their mothers and grandmothers have said, shaking the same powder across their broad or narrow noses and peering at their dabbed, genetically condemned faces or at a broken nail, probably bitten, held up and examined in the weak light."
"It occurs to her that these children may be bluffing with their bright, winning curiosity, being playful and sly, and masking a deeper, more abject and injurious sense of bewilderment. There is, after all, so much authentic chaos to sort out, so much seething muddle and predicament that it is a wonder children survive their early ignorance. How do they bear it? You would think they would hold their breath out of sheer rage or hurl themselves down flights of stairs. You would think they'd get sick and die."
"The Sloans have been told that the bombs currently detonated in Paris are the size of three cigarette packets, and they naturally wonder what possible good these cursory inspections can do. They've concluded that the searches are symbolic, evidence that strict security measures are being observed, even though the situation is clearly impossible."
""At age fifty-five, the ability to penetrate and explore has left him, perhaps only temporarily - he hopes so. Mainly, as he sees it, he's forgotten how to pay attention, grown somehow incapacitated and lazy. At times, he can't believe his own laziness. He chides himself, his sins of omission. He is a man so lazy, so remiss, he couldn't be bothered last spring to step into his own backyard for a glimpse of Halley's comet."
"[...] a yellow-eyed madame guarding the toilette and demanding payment of Meg - who pretended not to understand - and who muttered fiercely into her saucer of coins, ça commence, ça commence, meaning Meg Sloan of Milwaukee and the tidal wave of penny-pinching tourists who would follow, the affluent poor, the educationally driven, budget-bound North Americans whom Europeans so resemble but refuse to acknowledge."
"Harold loves the nineteenth century, which he sees as an exuberant epoch that produced and embraced the person he would like to have been: gentleman, generalist, amateur naturalist, calm but skeptical observer of kingships, comets and constellations, of flora and fauna and humanistic philosophy, and at times he can scarcely understand how he's come to be a supervisor in the public school system on the continent of North America."
"Now the journalist was going home to his flat in Notting Hill Gate; in twenty-four hours he would be fingering his collection of tiny glass animals and thinking that, despite his relative anonymity, his relative loneliness, his relatively small income and the relatively scanty degree of recognition that had come his way - despite this, his prized core of neutrality was safe from invaders. And what did that mean? He asked himself this with the same winning interrogation he practiced on the famous. It meant happiness, or something akin to happiness."
"And once she sat in the Reading Room of the British Museum and examined a tiny nineteenth-century book of essays written by an obscure country clergyman. The binding had long since deteriorated, and the pages had been tied together by someone - who? - when? - with a piece of ribbon. Slowly, respectfully, she'd tried to undo the knot, but the ribbon was so stiff with age that it crumbled on the table into a kind of white powder. She had examined the severed pages with more tenderness and sense of privilege than she'd ever felt toward anything in her life, and it occurred to her that perhaps this is what mothers feel for the secret lives of their children. Surely - she glanced at Northie - such moments keep people from flying into pieces."
"On Saturday she surveyed the five invitations, which were arranged in a circle on her coffee table. These missives, so richly welcoming, persuading and honoring, had pleased her at first, then puzzled her. And now she felt for the first time directly threatened. Something or someone was conspiring to consume a portion of her life, or herself, in fact - entering her apartment and taking possession of her Saturday evening just as a thief might enter and carry off her stereo [...]"
"He seems - I can only guess at this from the way his face relaxes, his tongue caught in silence - to enjoy an account of my day of sonnet-making, as long as I remember to keep my merry voice, but he offers nothing in return about the contents of his briefcase and how the New Manuscript is progressing."
"I'm being cordial in a way that may be slightly dishonest but that keeps life from bearing down with its solemn weight, keeps it nosing forward, and overrides the worst possible story the day might otherwise offer, his story, that is, which could quickly turn dreary and strangulated without my floating social descant riding overhead on strings of nylon."