The void is my friend.
I cup his face in my hands wanting to hold on to this moment. On to him. His laughter slows but his smile stays, settling into something heartbreakingly tender while his head drops back in the snow. I rub my thumbs over his cheeks and feel the rush of it. The magic. Snow and sky and us smack-dab in the middle of it, cold slipping through the tops of my boots and prickling at my skin. Jackson looking at me like maybe it feels like magic for him too.
page 222, Delilah
In language there is life; in language there is death.
page 36
And what of the museums, of which Europe is so proud? It would have been better, all things considered, if it had never been necessary to open them. Better if the Europeans had allowed the civilisations beyond the Continent of Europe to live alongside them, dynamic and prosperous, whole and unmutilated. Better if they had let those civilisations develop and flourish rather than offering up scattered limbs, these dead limbs, duly labelled, for us to admire.
After all, by itself the museum is nothing. It means nothing. It can say nothing. Here in the museum, the rapture of self-gratification rots our eyes. Here, a secret contempt of others dries up our hearts. Here racism, no matter if it is declared or undeclared, drains all empathy away. No, in the scales of knowledge the mass of all the museums in the world could never outweigh a lone spark of human empathy.
Aimé Césaire, Discours sur le colonisalisme, 1955 (Dan Hicks’ translation)
Each day, Marjana seemed more newly mature, a seedling thriving after the rain. It brought me a sort of wistful pride. How swiftly our children grown up, youthful aspects melting away before we blink.
Chapter 6
The sight of her in the golden morning sun is something straight out of a painting. I’m no artist, but even I feel the urge to capture this moment, if only to bottle up the calming warmth that fills my belly.
Chapter 7: Never Wake A Girl Up At An Ungodly Hour