I sank back in the grey, plush seat and closed my eyes. The air of the bell jar wadded round me and I couldn’t stir.
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I sank back in the grey, plush seat and closed my eyes. The air of the bell jar wadded round me and I couldn’t stir.
I also hate people to ask cheerfully how you are when they know you’re feeling like hell and expect you to say “Fine.”
The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life. Then, at the rim of vision, it gathered itself, and in one sweeping tide, rushed me to sleep.
I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
A keen wind that had been hiding itself struck me full in the mouth and raked the hair back horizontal on my head. I was descending, but the white sun rose no higher. It hung over the suspended waves of the hills, an insentient pivot without which the world would not exist.
As the countryside, already deep under old falls of snow, turned us a bleaker shoulder, and as the fir trees crowded down from the grey hills to the road edge, so darkly green they looked black, I grew gloomier and gloomier.
If you expect nothing from somebody you are never disappointed.
It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.
“Things, however, rarely happened the way you understood them. Mostly they just sort of drove up alongside what you thought was the case and then moved randomly down some other way.”
— Lorrie Moore, Anagrams
The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
There must be quite a few things a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them. Whenever I’m sad I’m going to die, or so nervous I can’t sleep, or in love with somebody I won’t be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: "I’ll go take a hot bath."
I had the impression it wasn’t night and it wasn’t day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
I was supposed to be having the time of my life
By nine in the morning the fake, country-wet freshness that somehow seeped in overnight evaporated like the tail end of a sweet dream.
I was dead for many years. They came and bound me - laced my arms together at my back. Then they lowered me at a grave vault, with iron bars before the loophole. And with padded walls - so that no one on the earth above could hear the grave shrieks. But now I am beginning, in a way to rise from the dead.
For after all there is a certain happiness in feeling oneself free and independent on every hand - in having at one's command everything one can possibly wish for - all outward things, that is to say.