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George Saunders

Lincoln in the Bardo

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  • Rosy Antuñanoцитирует2 года назад
    With each sob, a dagger left the griever and found its way into me, most painfully
  • Rosy Antuñanoцитирует2 года назад
    His headstrong nature, a virtue in that previous place, imperils him here, where the natural law, harsh and arbitrary, brooks no rebellion, and must be scrupulously obeyed
  • Rosy Antuñanoцитирует2 года назад
    Lord, what is this? All of this walking about, trying, smiling, bowing, joking? This sitting-down-at-table, pressing-of-shirts, tying-of-ties, shining-of-shoes, planning-of-trips, singing-of-songs-in-the-bath?
    When he is to be left out here?
    Is a person to nod, dance, reason, walk, discuss?
    As before?
    A parade passes. He can’t rise and join. Am I to run after it, take my place, lift knees high, wave a flag, blow a horn?
    Was he dear or not?
    Then let me be happy no more
  • Rosy Antuñanoцитирует2 года назад
    We wanted to know what this apparently charmed being thought of our particular reasons for remaining
  • Yetzцитирует4 года назад
    Some blows fall too heavy upon those too fragile
  • wonnerцитирует6 лет назад
    He was not perfect; he was, remember, a little boy. Could be wild, naughty, overwrought. He was a boy. However—it must be said—he was quite a good boy
  • wonnerцитирует6 лет назад
    His self-possession—aplomb, as the French call it—was extraordinary.
    Willis, op. cit
  • b6113302670цитирует6 лет назад
    I had been happy, happy enough, but now I often found myself uttering a spontaneous prayer that went, simply: She is here, still here. It was as if a rushing river had routed itself through my house, which was pervaded now by a freshwater scent and the awareness of something lavish, natural, and breathtaking always moving nearby.
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