Thursday, April 19, 2007

Spadina streetcar, nestled in the back, angled toward the window.

Asian woman, early 40s, wearing a black fleece zipped to the chin, black framed glasses, black jeans rolled high and red leather sneakers.

The Way the Crow Flies, Ann-Marie MacDonald (Knopf Canada)

Page 689:

Madeleine is not unhappy. She has put something aside, she may never take it up again. Is that what it means to finally grow up? To know there are things we have wrestled with and failed to defeat? To make peace with them by allowing them to rest--like a creature in a coma? Is that maturity? Or is it just life?

The body feels anticipation as terror. Try, you cannot fool the body into thinking this feeling is wonder, awe or comfort. Not that it is survivable, surpassable, even avoidable. Like roadkill that drags itself to the shoulder not to live but to avoid further humilation, she retreats, pen limp in hand, and hopes no one will find her beside the empty page.

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