Michael Cunningham today.
Zoe loved Trancas's mother. She respected her exhausted and ironic hope for rebirth.
--MIchael Cunningham, Flesh And Blood
Here's the sting of livingness. He's back after his nightly voyage of sleep, all clarity and purpose; he's renewed his citizenship in the world of people who strive and connect, people who mean business, people who burn and want, who remember everything, who walk lucid and unafraid.
--Michael Cunningham, The Snow Queen
She could have had a life as potent and dangerous as literature itself.
--Michael Cunningham, The Hours
Catherine thought Simon was in the locket, and in heaven, and with them still. Lucas hoped she didn't expect him to be happy about having so many Simons to contend with.
--Michael Cunningham, Specimen Days
Maybe it’s not, in the end, the virtues of others that so wrenches our hearts as it is the sense of almost unbearably poignant recognition when we see them at their most base, in their sorrow and gluttony and foolishness. You need the virtues, too—some sort of virtues—but we don’t care about Emma Bovary or Anna Karenina or Raskolnikov because they’re good. We care about them because they’re not admirable, because they’re us, and because great writers have forgiven them for it.
--Michael Cunningham, By Nightfall
Zoe loved Trancas's mother. She respected her exhausted and ironic hope for rebirth.
--MIchael Cunningham, Flesh And Blood
Here's the sting of livingness. He's back after his nightly voyage of sleep, all clarity and purpose; he's renewed his citizenship in the world of people who strive and connect, people who mean business, people who burn and want, who remember everything, who walk lucid and unafraid.
--Michael Cunningham, The Snow Queen
She could have had a life as potent and dangerous as literature itself.
--Michael Cunningham, The Hours
Catherine thought Simon was in the locket, and in heaven, and with them still. Lucas hoped she didn't expect him to be happy about having so many Simons to contend with.
--Michael Cunningham, Specimen Days
Maybe it’s not, in the end, the virtues of others that so wrenches our hearts as it is the sense of almost unbearably poignant recognition when we see them at their most base, in their sorrow and gluttony and foolishness. You need the virtues, too—some sort of virtues—but we don’t care about Emma Bovary or Anna Karenina or Raskolnikov because they’re good. We care about them because they’re not admirable, because they’re us, and because great writers have forgiven them for it.
--Michael Cunningham, By Nightfall
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