But in the end it wasn't up to me. The bigs things never are. Birth, I mean, and death. And love. And what love bequeaths to us before we're born.
It was amazing how it worked: the tiniest bit of truth made credible the greatest lies.
Sixty trillion years ago a god-scientist dug a hole through the earth, filled it with dynamite and blew the earth in two. The smaller of these two pieces became the moon.
Where else would she feel more comfortable than in this subterranean realm where people wrote down what they couldn't say, where they gave voice to their most shameful longings and knowledge?
On the morning the last Lisbon daughter took her turn at suicide- it was Mary this time, and sleeping pills, like Therese- the two paramedics arrived at the house knowing exactly where the knife drawer was, and the gas oven, and the beam in the basement from which it was possible to tie a rope.
We realized that the version of the world they rendered for us was not the version of the world they really believed in...
Can you see me? All of me? Probably not. No one ever really has.
It was one of those humid days when the atmosphere gets confused. Sitting on the porch, you could feel it: the air wishing it was water.
That was the deal basically: catatonia without; frenzy within
Within the substandard construction of the Charlevoix church, literally upon a shaky foundation, I was baptized into the Orthodox faith; a faith that had existed long before Protestantism had anything to protest and before Catholicism called itself catholic; a faith that stretched back to the beginnings of Christianity, when it was Greek and not Latin, and which, without an Aquinas to reify it, had remained shrouded in the smoke of tradition and mystery whence it began.
What lingered after them was not life, which always overcomes natural death, but the most trivial list of mundane facts: a clock ticking on a wall, a room dim at noon, and the outrageousness of a human being thinking only of herself.
Children learn to speak Male or Female the way they learn to speak English or French.
Just like ice, lives crack, too. Personalities. Identities. Jimmy Zizmo, crouching over the Packard's wheel has already changed past understanding.
The essential matrimonial facts: that to be happy you have to find variety in repetition; that to go forward you have to come back to where you begin.
You used to be able to tell a person's nationality by the face. Immigration ended that. Next you discerned nationality via the footwear. Globalization ended that.
She held herself very straight, like Audrey Hepburn, whom all women idolize and men never think about.
Winter is the season of alcoholism and despair.
Chunks of his life fell away, so that while we were moving ahead in time, he was moving back.
Lefty, who'd been observing all the ways Greece had been handed down to America, arrived now at where the transmission stopped. In other words: the future. He stepped off to meet it. Desdemona, having no alternative, followed.
The last thing the hockey ball symbolized was Time itself, the unstoppability of it, the way we're chained to our bodies, which are chained to Time.
Added to their loveliness was a new mysterious suffering, perfectly silent, visible in the blue puffiness beneath their eyes or the way they would sometimes stop in mid-stride, look down, and shake their heads as though disagreeing with life.
She wanted out of the decorating scheme.
You don't understand me. I'm a teenager. I've got problems!
Dr. Philbosian smelled like an old couch, of hair oil and spilled soup, of unscheduled naps.
Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling.
The mind self-edits. The mind airbrushes. It's a different thing to be inside a body than outside. From outside, you can look, inspect, compare. From inside there is no comparison.
All sixteen mentioned her jutting ribs, the insubstantiality of her thighs, and one, who went up to the roof with Lux during a warm winter rain, told us how the basins of her collarbones collected water.
Shit. What have kids got to be worried about now? If they want trouble, they should go live in Bangladesh.
You never get over it. But you get to where it doesn't bother you so much.
More Jeffrey Eugenides Quotations (Based on Topics)
Time - Life - Death & Dying - Facts - Mind - Love - Wisdom & Knowledge - Money & Wealth - World - War & Peace - Suffering - Emotions - Sense & Perception - Happiness - Water - Language - Morning - Fathers - Light - View All Jeffrey Eugenides Quotations
More Jeffrey Eugenides Quotations (By Book Titles)
- The Virgin Suicides
Paulo Coelho - V. S. Naipaul - Richard Bach - Honore de Balzac - Gabriel Garcia Marquez - Erich Segal - Emily Bronte - Alistair Maclean - Alexander Solzehnitsyn - Aldous Huxley