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Image of the quote is loading... SaveSave A month in and it seemed to CY that he was an explorer summiting the foothill of an a bizarre and primitive island. - Quote by Sarah Hall

A month in and it seemed to CY that he was an explorer summiting the foothill of an a bizarre and primitive island.

Sarah Hall
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Elliot Rawley was a drinker, Cy’s mother had been right. And he was a poor drinker. One that let the demons of the bottle into his head when he tipped it back, demons that went about unloosing all the trouble they could find stashed in the catacombs of his mind. Every tragic thing that had ever happened, every self-doubt, every delusion, freed itself from bondage and revisited him when he drank.
Sarah Hall
Those partial to drink were hiding faults and dishonesty. They were sloppy souls, even the ones with pleasant manners and fine noses.
Sarah Hall
Like a dog defeated in a frenzied circle by its own tail and slowing and realizing then that the tail it was after all along was already its possession
Sarah Hall
This is your first and final chance, your one and only biography.
Sarah Hall
The world can accommodate your situation, as it accommodates all situations. And your body will keep explaining to you how it all works, this original experiment, this lifelong gift. Your body will keep describing how, for the first time being at least, there is no escape from this particular vessel. These are your atoms. This is your consciousness. These are your experiences--your successes and mistakes. This is your first and final chance, your one and only biography. This is the existential container, the bowl of your life's soup, wherein something can be made sense of, wherein there is a cure, wherein you are.
Sarah Hall
There are stories told to him only at this time of year. Fantastic, magical stories, the old Hollier in the woods finding only three red berries, which peel back in the night to reveal gifts of frankincense, gold and myrrh, Christmas in hot deserts, dust-blown countries, the necklace of tears, and the story of the robin.
Sarah Hall
In truth, she disliked books. She felt a peculiar disquiet when opening the pages. She had felt it since childhood. She did not know why. Something in the act itself, the immersion, the seclusion, was disturbing. Reading was an affirmation of being alone, of being separate, trapped. Books were like oubliettes. Her preference was for company, the tactile world, atoms.
Sarah Hall
You’ve been wondering lately when the moment is that somebody is truly lost to you.
Sarah Hall
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