To something proud and restless–the spirit, perhaps–that looked out from inside her, nothing must make death more humbling than the idea of its ease: death should have a harder victory. This was stepping through still one more door held courteously open for her. Better to be rooted out hurt, bleeding, alive, like the daisies from the turf, than blow faintly across the lawn like a straw. All these years she had stood by, uncritically, smiling, had she been wanting really, like other women, to be the heart of things, to be what was going on? No wonder she gave such tender attention to small everyday things, living as people wish they could live over again, slighting nothing.
The House in Paris, Elizabeth Bowen
Happy Friday! Also, if you’re cruising around for something good to read, check out Guion and Caleb’s new music blog: Jams All Year. It’s funny and erudite and will almost certainly direct you to some great new tunes.