Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Some choice quotes from Ron Currie Jr.'s Flimsy Little Plastic Miracles

I'm usually not very good at capturing passages that I really love while reading. I either don't have a pencil or pen on me or I'm not feeling patient enough to jot the quote on a scrap of paper or onto my phone.  But as I've been reading Ron Currie Jr.'s new novel, Flimsy Little Plastic Miracles, I've been making an effort to make note of the quotes I really loved.

Reading through them, I've noticed how the quotes that I picked really apply to my current life situation and I wonder that if things were different if I would have been as in love with these quotes. Which sort of begs the question, how much of our appreciation of a book (or any art, really) shaped by our life's events?

Anyway, on with the quotes.

Why is grief, when inspired by certain types of loss, considered something to surmount, to get over, while when inspired by other types of loss it’s given a pass, allowed and even encouraged to go on forever? 

And when you try to live there, to live in a place where you’re betraying yourself over and over, not only do you grow to resent the hell out of it, and resent the hell out of whomever you’re betraying and censoring yourself for, but the very idea of your self begins slowly and inexorably to erode. Until you realize one day out of the clear blue that you have no idea who yourself is, anymore. 

Aging was no longer the abstraction it had been a decade before. It was now a fact made concrete by every gray hair discovered in the mirror, every randomly sore knee and forgotten factoid and irregular, spotty period, every unbidden thought of where our parents were at our age and, moreover, how old they had seemed to us then.

...and I realized suddenly that at thirty-six my body couldn't hope to keep up with either my heart or my brain when it came to this woman, always this woman, only this woman, because with this woman I was forever going to need the ravenous coupling that only teenagers are capable of, and I had not been a teenager for a very long time.

When I looked at Emma and my heart leapt into my throat, as it always did when I looked at her, I sometimes realized that if I could figure out a way to see her as other people no doubt must—as human, in other words, pretty, certainly, but flawed, real, actual, doomed to expire like the rest of us—then I would be free, finally. But there seemed to be only one way that I could see her. 
You can buy Flimsy Little Plastic Miracles at Powell's or Amazon.



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