The Candy House
最新书摘：
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duckducker2022-10-14The wind dropped magically away. In the stillness, Gregory noticed that every twig and branch held a delicate stack of snow. Snow swarmed like honeybees in the golden glow of the old-fashioned street lamps; it slathered tree trunks and sparkled like crushed diamonds at his feet. He heard a whispering noise and saw two people glide from among the trees on cross-country skis. A lavender lunar radiance filled the park. It was a world from childhood: castles and forests and magic lamps and princes scaling walls of brambles. That world.
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duckducker2022-10-14His name is Ames Hollander. Middle son, squashed between godliness above and eccentricity below.
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duckducker2022-10-10The only route to relevance at our age is through tongue-in-cheek nostalgia, but that is not—let me be very clear—our ultimate ambition. Tongue-in-cheek nostalgia is merely the portal, the candy house, if you will, through which we hope to lure in a new generation and bewitch them.
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duckducker2022-10-06The mythical feats you loved to read about a a child are puny beside the accomplishments of human beings on earth.
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duckducker2022-10-06To Chris, the artwork looked unexceptional: white squares and blocks of primary color. But good Abuela, its geometry was a bottomless source of meditative renewal.
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duckducker2022-07-13Alfred began, on occasion, to scream in public: on the L train, in Times Square; at Whole Foods; at the Whitney. He can recall, with remarkable clarity (for someone who was screaming), the tableaux of chaotic reaction that followed, although these descriptions are curiously inert for the listener, like hearing someone recount a dream. The exception is Duane Reade on Union Square, because of what happened after: Escorted brusquely from the store by two security guards, Alfred encountered a girl whose look of rapt curiosity had stood out among the panicked shoppers inside. Now she leaned against a wall, apparently waiting for him.
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duckducker2022-07-15As I watched the illumination of the Chicago sky, I was dreaming of the desert. I wanted to fill its emptiness with a different story than the one I’ve lived so far. Like Sasha had.
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duckducker2022-07-15Drew had begun forcing vitamins on me in the hospital; at his house, he imposed a high-protein fresh-food diet and enrolled me in a punishing course of physical therapy. As my color improved and I worked on my limp, I caught Drew eyeing me now and then with a look I struggled to name. Then I got it: curiosity. I was fifty-one. Whatever I did with the rest of my life would belong to Drew as much as me.
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duckducker2022-07-15In that instant, a skein of brilliant color snapped now: Sasha’s sculpture. From the ground, it had seemed a hodgepodge, but from my new height, it required structre and logic, like random scribbles aligning into prose. Skipping lines of color raced through the desert, sitting and twisting, backtracking, thickening, then scattering almost away: a skylarking utterance odd surpassing joy that rushed up from the land and encompassed me. Where the sculpture gave way, the dessert looked empty.
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duckducker2022-07-15But the real torture was watching my nineteen-year-old self: cocky and full of hope, unaware that within the hour, I would begin the "after" portion of my life, in which I would try, endlessly and futilely, to atone.
