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Perhaps this time of vertigo was so extreme because I had been severed from my own origins. My mother was my link to Africa and to England. Her body was my first landmearc. It was she who had raised her children and most childhood memories were twinned with her presence on earth. She was my primal satnav, but now the screen had gone blank.

“ I am a reflection of my mother‘s secret poetry, as well as of her hidden anger”
- Audre Lorde, poet

When our father does the things he needs to do in the world, we understand it is his due. If our mother does the things she needs to do in the world, we feel she has abandoned us. It is a miracle she survives our mixed messages, written in society’s, most poisoned Ink. It is enough to drive her mad.

Proust: “Ideas come to us as the successors to grief, and griefs, at the moment when they change into ideas, lose some part of their power to injure the heart”

My marriage was the boat and I knew that if I swam back to it, I would drown. It is also the ghost that will always haunt my life. I will never stop grieving for my long-held wish for enduring love that does not reduce its major players to something less than they are.

If we don’t believe in the future we are planning, the house we are mortgaged to, the person who sleeps by your side, it is possible that a Tempest (long lurking in the clouds) might bring us closer to how we want to be in the world

“You don’t blame your mother?”, she asked.
My eyes gave something away, and she closed hers.
“It’s always the mother who has the reasons inside her hands”

Dan, talking about his students: “They want dialogue, they want action; but there’s so much writing in the description!” I feel like this is something John Irving himself has probably lamented about readers, as his books are so full of description.