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It’s April. The long Montreal winter is over, although we still have some days that are quite chilly. But the joy of not wearing winter boots never gets old. It’s like your feet are weightless and you can skip down the street and feel like you’re flying.
“I’m not burying her tonight. She’s sleeping with me.”
“Oh, Audrey”, Aunt Maureen sighs. “You can’t sleep with a dead cat.”
“She’s hardly dead! She was alive a few hours ago. She doesn’t stink! She’s not rotting away! She’s absolutely perfect, except for the fact that she’s not breathing. How can you be here one minute and not the next?”
“Oh, Audrey”, Aunt Maureen sighs. “You can’t sleep with a dead cat.”
“She’s hardly dead! She was alive a few hours ago. She doesn’t stink! She’s not rotting away! She’s absolutely perfect, except for the fact that she’s not breathing. How can you be here one minute and not the next?”
“Look, dearie, no one gets through this life without having deep regrets about things we should or shouldn’t have done. That’s just being human. But as long as your goodness ledger has more written on it than your badness ledger, you’re in pretty good shape. None of us in this room are saints. Except maybe the dogs.”
“You always give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“That’s called marriage, Louise. It’s a constant battle between remembering what you like about someone and trying to forget what you hate about them. At a certain point, you know you’re not going to leave the life you built together, so you just soldier on.”
“That’s called marriage, Louise. It’s a constant battle between remembering what you like about someone and trying to forget what you hate about them. At a certain point, you know you’re not going to leave the life you built together, so you just soldier on.”
(…) because she knew me when I was a kid, she had all the ammunition she needed to push every one of my buttons and took great delight in doing so. I honestly don’t understand people like that. And they’re the ones who seem to live forever. It’s like their nastiness pickles them somehow, in a bitter brine.
As they drank coffee, Gaynor and Kitty lit cigarettes. Gaynor offered one to Wallace. "No thanks. Don't smoke."
"You're a clean-living soul, aren't you? I bet you don't drink, either," Gaynor said.
"No, ma,am. My father did enough of that."
"You're a clean-living soul, aren't you? I bet you don't drink, either," Gaynor said.
"No, ma,am. My father did enough of that."
He'd brought a book with him to read, "The Old Man and the Sea" by Ernest Hemingway. That was something he'd promised himself after Kitty left. To read more fiction. It was expanding his mind in ways he'd not thought possible.
I spend what seems like hours listening to the mind-numbing details of life in Tudor England. The only fact that stays with me is that King Henry VIII was definitely a serial killer. Several headless queens can vouch for that.
“(…) When I was growing up, a girl’s options were so limited. I had a teacher tell me once to stop asking so many questions, because I didn’t need to be smart. I was only going to grow up, get married, and have babies.”
It’s always a wrench to lose your parent. Especially one who didn’t give you what you needed. You want to know why, but they probably don’t know themselves. Still, you wish you could’ve had the conversation.
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quizz - dernier jour d'un condamné -
En quelle année est publié 'le dernier jour d'un condamné' ?
1999
1829
2004
1899
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