Anne Rice has written something seductive, tragic and touching.
"There is no normal life. There is only life."
Quotes:
where apparently he could “do nothing,” and “become nothing” and live on his looks and the “flattery of all these new friends of yours.”
This was something he loved, that they did not make small talk, that they could go hours without talking, that they talked without talking, but what were they saying to one another, without words, just now?
there isn’t a man alive who doesn’t feel possessive of the woman he loves, who doesn’t want to control his access to her and her access to him and his world.”
“Why,” asked Margon. “Because we don’t mope about lamenting our monstrous secrets? Why should we? We live in two worlds. We always have.”
But some other deeper and finer feeling was dawning in him now, that it was not all “either-or.” A magnificent possibility was occurring to him, that disparate things might in some way be united in ways we had to come to understand.
“Of course, it’s about faith—faith that this is God’s world and we’re God’s children. How could it not be about faith? I think if one truly loves God with all one’s heart, then one has to love everybody else. It’s not a choice. And you don’t love them because it scores you points with God. You love them because you are trying to see them and embrace them as God sees and embraces them. You are loving them because they are alive.”
“St. Augustine wrote something once, something I think about often,” he said. “ ‘God triumphs on the ruins of our plans.’ And maybe that is what is happening here. We make blunders, we make mistakes, and somehow new doors open, new possibilities arise, opportunities of which we’ve never dreamed. Let’s trust that that is what is happening here for each of us.”
old English Christmas carols sung by the choir of St. John’s College at Cambridge,
And it’s never been my policy to turn away others at any time, really. There are ways to live this life, and my way has always been one of inclusion—of our own kind, of all humankind, of all spirits, of all things under the sun. It’s not a virtue with me. I don’t know any other way to move through the world.”
“To love, to learn, and to serve.”
“That she’ll soon be at peace,” he said. “The same thing you hope for, and that she’s forgiven me for all the things I did that were wrong, and unwise, and foolish.
Twelfth Night—January 6, or the Feast of the Epiphany—as was the tradition,
and they would travel this bizarre road into revelation and experience together.
a nineteenth-century memoir by an obscure doctor who described a long and heroic life in medicine on the frontier. For Laura, the Duino Elegies and the Sonnets to Orpheus of Rilke in a first edition. For Margon he had an early special edition of T. E. Lawrence’s autobiography, and for Felix, Thibault, and Stuart fine and early hardcovers of several English ghost-story writers—Amelia Edwards, Sheridan Le Fanu, and Algernon Blackwood—whom Reuben especially treasured. He had vintage travelers’ memoirs for Sergei and for Frank, and Lisa; and books of English and French poetry for Heddy and Jean Pierre. For Celeste, he had a special leather-bound copy of the autobiography of Clarence Darrow; and for Mort a vintage edition of Hawthorne’s The House of the Seven Gables, which he knew Mort loved.
For Jim, he had books on filmmakers Robert Bresson and Luis Buñuel and a first edition of Lord Acton’s essays. For Stuart, a couple of great books on J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, and the Inklings, as well as a new verse translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.
Lastly for Phil, he had managed at last to score all the small individual hardcover volumes of Shakespeare’s plays edited by George Lyman Kittredge—the little Ginn and Company books which Phil had so loved in his student days.
Poetry should be taken in small doses. Nobody needs poetry. Nobody needs to make himself read it.
I know who I am. And I knew I had to come. I had to be here. I had to spend my remaining days somewhere that I truly wanted to be, doing the things that mattered to me, no matter how trivial. Walking the woods, reading my books, writing my poems, looking out at that ocean, that endless ocean. I had to. I couldn’t keep moving towards the grave step by step—choked with regret, choked with bitterness and disappointment!”
Maybe because I’m a pastor, a believer, somebody for whom the mysterious is just, well, very real.
“I’ll tell you. The most radical thing about a conversion to God is the determination to love, to really love in His name.”
“Think about what it means to renew, to repent, to start all over again. We human beings always have that capacity. No matter how badly we stumble, we can get up and try again. No matter how miserably we fail ourselves and God and those around us, we can get up and start all over again.
“There is no midwinter so cold and so dark that we can’t reach for the shining light with both hands.”He paused for a moment as if he had to check his own emotions, and then he resumed slowly. walking up and down and speaking again.
“That’s the meaning of all the candles of Christmas,” he said, “the bright electric lights on our Christmas trees. It’s the meaning of all the celebrations throughout the season, that we have the hope always and forever of being better than we are, of triumphing over the darkness that might have defeated us in the past, and realizing a brilliance never imagined before.”
“Ordinary Time.” ’ But the reason I love it is that every season, every celebration, every defeat, and every hope and aspiration that we have is rooted in time, dependent on time, revealed to us in time.
“We don’t think about that enough. We spend too much time cursing time—time waits for no man, time will tell, oh, the ravages of time, time flies! We don’t think about the gift of time. Time gives us the chance to make mistakes and correct them, to regenerate, to grow. Time gives us the chance to forgive, to restore, to do better than we have ever done in the past. Time gives us the chance to be sorry when we fail and the chance to try to discover in ourselves a new heart.”
we find ourselves, at the end of this Christmas season and once again in the glorious miracle—I mean the pure and glorious miracle—of ‘Ordinary Time.’ How we use this time means everything. Will we take the opportunity to transform ourselves, to admit our hideous blunders, and to become, against all odds, the people of our dreams? That’s what it’s about, right?—becoming the people of our dreams.”
I lost my battle with love, with the solemn and inescapable commandment: Thou shalt love!
“But this morning, as I stand here, I’m grateful with all my heart that time is once more stretching out before me, providing me again with the chance to somehow—somehow—make amends for the things I’ve done. God puts in our path so many opportunities for that, doesn’t He?—so many people out there who need so much from each and every one of us. He gives us people to help, people to serve, people to embrace, people to comfort, people to love. As long as I live and breathe, I am surrounded by these limitless opportunities, blessed by them on all sides. So I come away from Christmas—and that great shining banquet of riches—thankful once more for the absolute miracle of ‘Ordinary Time.’ ”
There is no normal life. There is only life.
O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie. Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.