Цитаты из книги Лужок черного лебедя

So I tell him, “Go to the hell, Willy, our souls eat poetry, but one has seven deadly sins to feed!” He consented my logic. Poets are listeners, if they are not intoxicated."

‘Impossible! Beauty is immune to definition. When beauty is present, you know. Winter sunrise in dirty Toronto, one’s new lover in an old café, sinister magpies on a roof. But is the beauty of these made? No. Beauty is here, that is all. Beauty is.’

Одиночество во мне было подобно камню, брошенному в пустоту – камень летел в никуда, все быстрей и быстрей.

Я часто думаю, что мальчики на самом деле не становятся мужчинами. Просто мальчика закатывают в папье-маше, из которого снаружи лепят мужскую маску...

Photos're better than nothing, but things're better than photos 'cause the things themselves were part of what was there.

But  how someone acts isn't what they are. Not necessarily. Best not to be too judgemental. Maybe there's stuff going on you don't know about.

Secrets affect you more than you'd think. You lie to keep them hidden. You steer talk away from them. You worry someone'll discover yours and tell the world. You think you are in charge of the secret, but isn't it the secret that's using you? S'pose lunatics mould their doctors, more than doctors mould their lunatics?

Courage is being scared shitless but doing it anyway.

I thought how all leaders can sense what people're afraid of and turn that fear into bows and arrows and muskets and grenades and nukes to use however they want. That's power.

I lay on the armless sofa. I've never listened to music lying down. Listening's reading if you close your eyes.

Music's a wood you walk through.

My wise friend Susan has written this. "By slicing out this moment and freezing it ..." ' Madame Crommelynck studied the girl she'd once been and tapped ash from her cigarette. ' "... all photographs testify to time's relentless melt." '

If you are not truthful to the world about who and what you are, your art will stink of falsenesses.

I'm a kid. I'm thirteen. You said it's a miserable age, being thirteen, and you're right. If you don't fit in, they make your life a misery.

The sequence of doors we passed made me think of all the rooms of my past and future. The hospital ward I was born in, classrooms, tents, churches, offices, hotels, museums, nursing homes, the room I'll die in. (Has it been built yet?) Cars're rooms. So are woods. Skies're ceilings. Distances're walls. Wombs're rooms made of mothers. Graves're rooms made of soil.

Often I think boys don't become men. Boys just get papier-mâchéd inside a man's mask. Sometimes you can tell the boy is still in there.

War's an auction where whoever can pay the most in damage and still be standing wins.