22 June 2014

"Here's the devil's feathers."

Quoyle squinted at the sky where nothing could be seen but the billions of tossing flakes stirred by a rigorous wind.
"It's a stepmother's breath," said Billy.

Past Tense

You: too particular to appreciate me. Me: too appreciative to be particular.

06 June 2014

In Wyoming they name girls Skye. In Newfoundland it's Wavey.

Wavey ran to get away, then for the sake of running, and at last because there was nothing else to do. It would look undecided to change her pace, as though she did not know what she wanted. It seemed always that she had to keep on performing pointless acts.
Quoyle lay in the heather and stared after her, watching the folds of her blue skirt erased by the gathering distance. The aunt, the children, Wavey. He pressed his groin against the barrens as if he were in union with the earth. His aroused senses imbued the far scene with enormous importance. The small figures against the vast rock and sea beyond. All the complex wires of life were stripped out and he could see the structure of life. Nothing but rock and sea, the tiny figures of humans and animals against them for a brief time.
A sense of purity renewed, a sense of events in trembling balance flooded him.
Everything, everything seemed encrusted with portent.

-- Proulx