Within the subdivisions named for species of trees, there are the gates and the guards, the houses that are architectural siblings sired by the same developer, their backyards sprawling golf courses, the landscape scraped from the skin of a dollar bill, trimmed hedges, miles of mowed grass, the only pedestrians the roving ethnic laborers who maintain it all, not a single speck of litter on the smooth, pristine roads, only the fleets of golf carts, all the pretty flowers, the big palm trees, all that and the residents still live in the mouth of a rat.
“I remember, said Austerlitz, how Alphonso once told his great-nephew and me that everything was fading before our eyes, and that many of the loveliest of colours had already disappeared, or existed only where no one saw them, in the submarine gardens fathoms deep below the surface of the sea.”
— W.G. Sebald, Austerlitz
“The thing to remember about love affairs,” says Simone, “is that they are all like having raccoons in your chimney.”
“Oh, not the raccoon story,” groans Cal.
“Yes! The raccoons!” cries Eugene.
“We have raccoons sometimes in our chimney,” explains Simone.
“Hmmm,” I say, not surprised.
“And once we tried to smoke them out. We lit a fire, knowing they were there, but we hoped that the smoke would cause them to scurry out the top and never come back. Instead, they caught on fire and came crashing down into our living room, all charred and in flames and running madly around until they dropped dead.” Simone swallows some wine. “Love affairs are like that,” she says. “They all are like that.”
—Lorrie Moore, Like Life
“‘It isn’t the drunkard who writes the drinking song.’ He knew that. On the other hand, it isn’t the teetotaler either. He put it best, perhaps, when he said that the writer must wade into life as into the sea, but only up to the navel.”
— Julian Barnes, Flaubert’s Parrot
“We heard the story of Jose Ramirez, or fragments of it; my friend thought it was wonderful, and, after a moment of puzzlement, so did I, though later, as we approached the unknown slopes of the night, to quote Poe, the story began to blur, as if the Indian boy’s words could find nowhere to settle in our memories, which must be why I can hardly remember a thing he said.”
— Roberto Bolaño, Last Evenings on Earth
“[Harper Lee] once explained to Oprah Winfrey, over lunch in a private suite at the Four Seasons, why she’d never appear on her show: Everyone compares her to Scout, the sweetly pugnacious tomboy who narrates Mockingbird. But as she told Oprah, ‘I’m really Boo’ — Boo Radley, the young recluse in the creepy house who winds up saving the day.”
— Boris Kachka, Vulture