It is sad, of course, to forget. But it is a lonely thing, to be forgotten. To remember when no one else does.
Sammy Pipps isn’t simply clever. He can lift up the edges of the world and peek beneath. He has a gift I’ll never understand. Believe me, I’ve tried.
I was following a phantom in my mind, whose shadowy form had taken shape at last. Her features were blurred, her coloring indistinct, the setting of her eyes and the texture of her hair was still uncertain, still to be revealed. She had beauty that endured, and a smile that was not forgotten. Somewhere her voice still lingered, and the memory of her words.
No wonder men did not want women to wear bloomers. What could women accomplish if they did not have to continually mind their skirts, keep them from dragging in the mud or getting trampled on the steps of an omnibus? If they had pockets! With pockets, women could conquer the world!
You have written of these ‘’companions’’ as you call them. You say you were afraid of them. But do you know what really scares us? It is not things that go bump – or even hiss- in the night. Our fears are much closer than that. We are afraid of the things inside us.
Mr. Rochester grunted. “Miss Eyre, listen to me. I believe there is a string below your rib, and it stretches across class and age to me, and it is attached beneath my rib. And if you find another suitable position, and leave me, you will pull it out. And I will bleed.
Their memories crowd the edges of my mind, the weight of them almost too much to bear. I want everything they want. I feel their aches and am made timid by their fears. I’m no longer a man, I’m a chorus.
Ethel took her hand. ‘You’re a good friend Alvie. Even without all the magic.’ Alvie squeezed back. ’You are too, Ethel. Even without the arm.’ The older woman’s eyes watered just a bit. ‘I think that, today that’s something I needed to hear’.
Jane, as we mentioned earlier, loved books. There was nothing she relished more than the weight of a hefty tome in her hands, each beautiful volume of knowledge as rare and wonderful and fascinating as the last.
I was introduced to Jessica Spotswood through her first anthology project A Tyranny of Petticoats, which featured 15 stories about badass women. I don’t remember much of it, but I know I gave it a 3/5 rating because the stories were good, but nothing special or memorable for me.
Demons are present in the world of men even when no image of them can be found. Their presence is asserted as a suggestion, a manner. They can be sensed in the curve of a line, in a heady fragrance, in the subtleties of certain colors.