In the hopeful 1950s, Frank and April Wheeler appear to be a model couple: bright, beautiful, talented, with two young children and a starter home in the suburbs. Perhaps they married too young and started a family too early. Maybe Frank's job is dull. And April never saw herself as a... read more
I woke up with the heaviest tug at my heart in the morning today. I couldn't figure out why. As I walk mindlessly to the shower, thumping my body with the rain of hot water as if to shake off the bleak stance I seem to be frozen in, my diminishing reflection on the screen looked pale and... read more (warning: may contain spoilers)
“It’s a disease. Nobody thinks or feels or care any more; nobody gets excited or believe in anything except their own comfortable little God damn mediocrity.”
“...You found you were saying yes when you meant no, and “We’ve got to be together in this thing” when you meant the very opposite; ... then you were face to face, in total darkness, with the knowledge that you didn’t know who you were. And how could anyone else be blamed for that?”
Wasn’t it true, then, that everything in his life from that point on had been a succession of things he hadn’t really wanted to do?Highlighted by 101 Kindle customers
Intelligent, thinking people could take things like this in their stride, just as they took the larger absurdities of deadly dull jobs in the city and deadly dull homes in the suburbs. Economic circumstance might force you to live in this environment, but the important thing was to keep from being contaminated. The important thing, always, was to remember who you were.Highlighted by 95 Kindle customers
Proving, proving; and for no other reason than that he was married to a woman who had somehow managed to put him forever on the defensive, who loved him when he was nice, who lived according to what she happened to feel like doing and who might at any time—this was the hell of it—who might at any time of day or night just happen to feel like leaving him. It was as ludicrous and as simple as that.Highlighted by 85 Kindle customers
that if you wanted to do something absolutely honest, something true, it always turned out to be a thing that had to be done alone.Highlighted by 83 Kindle customers
That’s how we both got committed to this enormous delusion—because that’s what it is, an enormous, obscene delusion—this idea that people have to resign from real life and ‘settle down’ when they have families. It’s the great sentimental lie of the suburbs,Highlighted by 73 Kindle customers
It’s a disease. Nobody thinks or feels or cares any more; nobody gets excited or believes in anything except their own comfortable little God damn mediocrity.”Highlighted by 73 Kindle customers
He could even be grateful in a sense that he had no particular area of interest: in avoiding specific goals he had avoided specific limitations. For the time being the world, life itself, could be his chosen field.Highlighted by 72 Kindle customers
OUR ABILITY TO MEASURE and apportion time affords an almost endless source of comfort.Highlighted by 71 Kindle customers
Then the fight went out of control. It quivered their arms and legs and wrenched their faces into shapes of hatred, it urged them harder and deeper into each other’s weakest points, showing them cunning ways around each other’s strongholds and quick chances to switch tactics, feint, and strike again. In the space of a gasp for breath it sent their memories racing back over the years for old weapons to rip the scabs off old wounds; it went on and on.Highlighted by 56 Kindle customers
The whole point of crying was to quit before you cornied it up. The whole point of grief itself was to cut it out while it was still honest, while it still meant something. Because the thing was so easily corrupted: let yourself go and you started embellishing your own sobs, or you started telling about the Wheelers with a sad, sentimental smile and saying Frank was courageous, and then what the hell did you have?Highlighted by 53 Kindle customers
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