Asides

  • Beautiful Sentences

    The question is not, he said, were you loved. Or did you love. Or did you love yourself. Or did you allow love to move you, though that’s a big one. Move you. The question, Rockwell, is did you get to be who you are And if not, then why. That, my friend, is the…

  • Beautiful sentences

    I’ll immortalize you, you’ll become the book I was always meant to write, the one where the forgeries of our humanity become the timeless tragedies of our race. Robert Vivian, The Mover of Bones.

  • Beautiful sentences

    A man retains the structure of integrity, even after he has sold off the shelves of goods that integrity insisted should never be sold. Michael Winter, The Big Why.

  • Beautiful sentences

    In the matter of belief, I have always found that defenses have the same irrelevance about them as the criticisms they are meant to answer. Marilynne Robinson, Gilead.

  • Beautiful sentences

    I heard my self using a snotty tone to Judge Prowse. I was put off by it. But then wondered where snottiness comes from. It comes from an attempt to be funny and companionable. And this striving stems from a sense that one is not secure of confident—it’s a lack of confidence. That one feels…

  • Beautiful Sentences

    There’s a mystery in the thought of the re-creation of an old man as an old man, with all the defects and injuries of what is called long life faithfully preserved in him, and all their claims and all their tendencies honored, too, as in the steady progress of arthritis in my left knee.  …

  • Beautiful Sentences

    I like the crust, as long as there’s something still stuck to the bread. I like the remnants of things. Michael Winter, The Big Why.

  • Beautiful Sentences

    I’ve developed a great reputation for wisdom by ordering more books than I ever had time to read, and reading more books, by far, than I learned anything useful from, except, of course, that some very tedious gentlemen have written books. Marilynne Robinson, Gilead.

  • Beautiful Sentences

    We all—in the end—die in medias res. Mona Simpson, “A Sister’s Eulogy for Steve Jobs” (The New York Times 30 October 2011)