Aug. 20th, 2011

"Midnight in Paris" is a much more pleasant way to get a fix of Paris in the 1920s. I so wish they had stayed longer at the Surrealist apartment with all the white stuffed animals.

Back to Hadley's life before Hem or Paris, i.e. poor little rich girl:

  • I waited for the room to tip just that much off its center, then walked up to Harrison, picking each foot up and putting it back
    down again, getting closer.
  • We stood there, locked and lovely as statues in a garden—and for several dozen heartbeats I was his wife. I had already borne his children and secured his loyalty and was well beyond the thorny rim of my own mind, that place where hope got itself snagged and swallowed over and over. I could have this. It was already mine.
  • Harrison’s eyes were the pale blue of drowned stars.
  • Was it love? It felt awful enough. I spent another two years crawling around in the skin of it.
  • I had my very first ice-cream cone there and couldn’t stop marveling at how the sugary cylinder wasn’t cold in my hand.
  • To hear them talk, you would think that marriage was the most terrible thing that could happen to a woman.
  • We sat for private lessons at one of our two Steinway grand pianos.
  • “Poor Hadley,” my mother said. “Poor hen.” She said it over and over, until her words became stitched onto my brain, replacing any other description of me, as well as every other possible outcome.
  • The door to my father’s study stayed closed for a time, but not locked. The carpets had been cleaned but not replaced, the revolver had been emptied and polished and placed back in his desk.

By the way, this sentences is among the most highlighted in the book. I think it says more about the book's target audience:

"My life was my life; I would have to stare it down, somehow, and make it work for me."

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