Why, you ask. How would I know? When a flame is lit move toward it.
“I guess it can’t be too often that two people can laugh and make love, too, make love because they are laughing, laugh because they’re making love. The love and the laughter come from the same place: but not many people go there.”
― If Beale Street Could Talk
― If Beale Street Could Talk
“Tamar. You probably feel poorer now. Not money-wise—I know you didn’t mind about that. It’s because you believed in something that turned out not to be real. That’s what happened, but I wasn’t the one who tricked you. Trickery occurs all the time, all the time . . . people exchange fake money for things of genuine value, people spend their life savings on lies. Let each person involved in those exchanges consider their losses and gains, the benefits and drawbacks of trusting others and gaining the trust of others, but as for you, Tamar, don’t you dare say it’s trust that’s made you poorer today . . . first of all, what was the source of that trust? Wasn’t it the value you placed on my obedience? Isn’t that what you thought you’d bought . . . affectionate obedience? Somebody who wouldn’t feel any more or any less than you wanted her to feel, someone who’d love but not dare to—whatever it turns out I’ve dared to do. But really you shouldn’t be surprised this happened; this is what you get for placing people in your debt in such a way that they can never repay it!”
― Gingerbread
― Gingerbread
“tell. My own sense is that one aided the other, as those who stand to gain from the manipulation of truth often prey on those bereft of critical thinking.”
― Figuring
― Figuring
“While you were talking, I was thinking … whatever distance we can put between ourselves and hatred? That’s freedom—that’s all the freedom we’re likely to get.”
― Mona
― Mona
“There are several fine verses concerning Hope, including two that tend to come to mind whenever I hear the word. Both are the work of poets named Emily who were alive around the same time, so you can’t even say that one was channeling an Age of Pessimism. In one poem, hope is a wild, stubborn thing with feathers that darts into the lyric to be caressed on the understanding that nobody will try to tame it. In the other poem, hope is clammy and clinging and plays toxic mind games: Like a false guard, false watch keeping / Still, in strife, she whispered peace / She would sing while I was weeping / If I listened, she would cease. When you endure some poison in the hope that it’ll give rise to its own antidote, on what terms does that hope come to you . . . ?”
― Gingerbread
― Gingerbread
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Bea’s 2024 Year in Books
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