(no subject)
just finished a phenomenal book - "The Time Traveler's Wife" by Audrey Niffenegger. I highly recommend it; one of those you can't put down. Very well written, kept my attention. Here's a brief excerpt;
"Clare: It's hard being left behind. I wait for Henry, not knowing where he is, wondering if he's okay. It's hard to be the one who stays.
I keep myself busy. Time goes faster that way. I go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. I take walks. I work until I'm tired. I watch the wind play with the trash that's been under the snow all winter. Everything seems simple until you think about it. Why is love intensified by absence?
Long ago, men went to sea and women waited for them, standing on the edge of the water, scanning the horizon for the tiny ship. Now I wait for Henry. He vanishes unwillingly, without warning. I wait for him. Each moment that I wait feels like a year, an eternity. Each moment is as slow and transparent as glass. Through each moment I can see infinite moments lined up, waiting. Why has he gone where I cannot follow?"
"Henry: How does it feel? It feels exactly like one of those dreams in which you suddenly realize that you have to take a test you haven't studied for and you aren't wearing any clothes. And you've left your wallet at home. When I am out there, I am inverted, changed into a desperate version of myself. I become a thief, a vagrant, an animal who runs and hides. I startle old women and amaze children. I am a trick, an illusion of the highest order, so incredible that I am actually true. ....It's ironic really. All my pleasures are homey ones: armchair splendor, the sedate excitements of domesticity. All I ask for are humble delights.... These are the things that can pierce me with longing when I am displaced from them by Time's whim.... And Clare, always Clare. Clare in the morning, sleepy and crumple-faced.... Clare's low voice is in my ear often. I hate to be where she is not, and when she is not. And yet, I am always going, and she cannot follow."
"Clare: It's hard being left behind. I wait for Henry, not knowing where he is, wondering if he's okay. It's hard to be the one who stays.
I keep myself busy. Time goes faster that way. I go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. I take walks. I work until I'm tired. I watch the wind play with the trash that's been under the snow all winter. Everything seems simple until you think about it. Why is love intensified by absence?
Long ago, men went to sea and women waited for them, standing on the edge of the water, scanning the horizon for the tiny ship. Now I wait for Henry. He vanishes unwillingly, without warning. I wait for him. Each moment that I wait feels like a year, an eternity. Each moment is as slow and transparent as glass. Through each moment I can see infinite moments lined up, waiting. Why has he gone where I cannot follow?"
"Henry: How does it feel? It feels exactly like one of those dreams in which you suddenly realize that you have to take a test you haven't studied for and you aren't wearing any clothes. And you've left your wallet at home. When I am out there, I am inverted, changed into a desperate version of myself. I become a thief, a vagrant, an animal who runs and hides. I startle old women and amaze children. I am a trick, an illusion of the highest order, so incredible that I am actually true. ....It's ironic really. All my pleasures are homey ones: armchair splendor, the sedate excitements of domesticity. All I ask for are humble delights.... These are the things that can pierce me with longing when I am displaced from them by Time's whim.... And Clare, always Clare. Clare in the morning, sleepy and crumple-faced.... Clare's low voice is in my ear often. I hate to be where she is not, and when she is not. And yet, I am always going, and she cannot follow."