Zadie Smith
British novelist.
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His mind was a small thing with big holes through which passions regularly seeped out.
Ryan's freckles were a join-the-dot's enthusiast's wet dream.
The thinnest covering of luck was on him like fresh dew. While he slipped in and out of consciousness , the position of the planets, the music of the spheres, the flap of a tiger moth's diaphanous wings in Central Africa, and a whole bunch of other stuff that makes shit happen had decided it was second-chance time for Archie.
In a whisper he began begging for—and, as the sun set, received—the concession people always beg for: a little more time.
This is what divorce is: Taking things you no longer want from people you no longer love.
Revelation is where all crazy people end up. It's the last stop on the nutso express.
You hear girls in the toilets of clubs saying, 'Yeah, he fucked off and left me. He just couldn't deal with love. He was too fucked up to know how to love me.' Now how did that happen? What was it about this unlovable century that convinced us we were, despite everything, eminently lovable as a people, as a species? What made us think that anyone who fails to love us is damaged, lacking, malfunctioning in some way? And particularly if they replace us with a god, or a weeping madonna, or the face of Christ in a ciabatta roll—then we call them crazy. Deluded. Regressive. We are so convinced of the goodness of ourselves, and the goodness of our love, we cannot bear to believe that there might be something more worthy of love than us, more worthy of worship. Greeting cards routinely tell us everybody deserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. Not everybody deserves love all the time.
He was bookish, she was not; he was theoretical, she political. She called a rose a rose. He called it an accumulation of cultural and biological constructions circulating around the mutually attracting binary poles of nature/artifice.
The more blessed she felt on earth, the more rarely she turned to heaven.
Is there anything more likely to take the shine off an affair that when the lover strikes up a convivial relationship with the lovee's mother.
Because this is the other thing about immigrants: they cannot escape their history any more than you yourself can lose your shadow.
You don't have favorites among your children but you do have allies.
The greatest lie ever told about love is that it sets you free.
A past tense, future perfect kind of night.
..and the devil won another easy hand in God's poker game.
... dressed all in yellow spreading warmth and the promise of sex.
His death is like the soft down on the back of your hand, passing unnoticed in the firmest of handshakes, though the slightest breeze makes every damn one of the tiny hairs stand on end.
But why do they always have to be laughing and making a song-and-dance about everything? I cannot believe homosexuality is that much fun. Heterosexuality certainly is not.
It was in the shady groves of dictionaries that Jack fell in love.
A carefully preserved English accent also upped the fear factor.
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