In this luminous novel about love, loss, and the unpredictable power of memory, John Banville introduces us to Max Morden, a middle-aged Irishman who has gone back to the seaside town where he spent his summer holidays as a child to cope with the recent loss of his wife. It is also a return to... read more
“Perhaps all of life is no more than a long preparation for the leaving of it.”
Perhaps all of life is no more than a long preparation for the leaving of it.Highlighted by 59 Kindle customers
Life, authentic life, is supposed to be all struggle, unflagging action and affirmation, the will butting its blunt head against the world’s wall, suchlike, but when I look back I see that the greater part of my energies was always given over to the simple search for shelter, for comfort, for, yes, I admit it, for cosiness.Highlighted by 47 Kindle customers
We carry the dead with us only until we die too, and then it is we who are borne along for a little while, and then our bearers in their turn drop, and so on into the unimaginable generations.Highlighted by 46 Kindle customers
There are moments when the past has a force so strong it seems one might be annihilated by it.Highlighted by 45 Kindle customers
Given the world that he created, it would be an impiety against God to believe in him.Highlighted by 45 Kindle customers
That is why the past is just such a retreat for me, I go there eagerly, rubbing my hands and shaking off the cold present and the colder future. And yet, what existence, really, does it have, the past? After all, it is only what the present was, once, the present that is gone, no more than that. And yet.Highlighted by 44 Kindle customers
Yes, this is what I thought adulthood would be, a kind of long indian summer, a state of tranquillity, of calm incuriousness, with nothing left of the barely bearable raw immediacy of childhood, all the things solved that had puzzled me when I was small, all mysteries settled, all questions answered, and the moments dripping away, unnoticed almost, drip by golden drip, toward the final, almost unnoticed, quietus.Highlighted by 40 Kindle customers
But then, at what moment, of all our moments, is life not utterly, utterly changed, until the final, most momentous change of all?Highlighted by 39 Kindle customers
Happiness was different in childhood. It was so much then a matter simply of accumulation, of taking things—new experiences, new emotions—and applying them like so many polished tiles to what would someday be the marvellously finished pavilion of the self.Highlighted by 34 Kindle customers
What a little vessel of sadness we are, sailing in this muffled silence through the autumn dark.Highlighted by 27 Kindle customers
Followed by The Red Queen.
Preceded by The Line of Beauty, and followed by The Inheritance of Loss.
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