"The only way he could come to terms with himself was to forget himself, and that was what he was always doing." p.247, #MissMacintoshMyDarling #MargueriteYoung.
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Oh that needs your full attention! #MissMacintoshMyDarling #Myoung2019
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I have a used 1965 edition which I bought for a mere $35. #MissMacintoshMyDarling
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Just use the hashtag #MissMacintoshMyDarling so we can find them.
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His own flame must surely long ago have gone out. He had burned in the midst of water. He walked through the webbed sunlight of dead days, the sun shining pale as the moon beyond the cloud. (603)
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Who could afford to look directly at life? For life was itself this indirection, going not by a straight road. (579)
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His star had fallen, never again to rise. Surely he dwelled among the shadows. (567)
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Ryan @ryanruby.bsky.social your review is excellent! Superb! Just wonderful! I shall be reading it over and over again. Absolute bliss! No one could have captured the essence of #MissMacintoshMyDarling as you have. I was captivated the entire time I was reading it!
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The dead lived with their unfinished business. Infinite frustration was theirs. (557)
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The sense of the immediate was freighted with the past—and if it were not, then what would be the present but an empty room, a closed door, the hull of an old boat stripped bare of its shrouds, a withered rose, a dead love?
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There was much that he had forgotten, for his memory was brief, brief as a raindrop splashing in a distant pool of water or the cry of a night bird in the whistling of the winter wind . . . (510)
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There were many lost chords, wandering echoes, flute notes, many looms of trembling sound. There were a great many people talking in an empty chamber . . . (448)
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Life was a scheme of mirages, even for those who lived.
(431)
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For what was man . . .
a creature of changeableness, a creature of transience, a falling star, a meteor gone before we knew that it had passed? He was the broken sea shell. (386)
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For every soul must know finally its Northwest Passage, must find that which cannot be found, the crevice narrow as a thread suddenly opening into those great abysses filled with cities of frozen pinnacles and towers. (370)
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The air was filled with subdued rustlings, stirrings, tinkling of starlight, even in a dark night of the human soul, even when there should have been no consciousness, no memory. (340)
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. . . in order to reach the upper world, one must first travel through the lower world, visiting all streets, lanes, alleys, and the journey might be endless (320)
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My imagination wandered like a dark and formless cloud, seeking that certitude it might never have. (303)
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Were all human beings equally evasive, surrounded by clouds of chance and doubt, by opaque ignorance no morning light could penetrate, and were there such dark things in the heart? (282)
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“Ah, this poor fiction of life,” she said. (284)
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What shall we do when, fleeing from illusion, we are confronted by illusion? When falling from illusion, we fall into illusion? Have we not deceived ourselves? Where was the real world? (241)
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If there should be a heaven beyond all chaos, then in that heaven the leaves should fall, too, and there should be the same cracks and strains, the same confusions…the lost stars blowing like the incoming of the morning surf. (210)
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