Someone once wrote that a novel should deliver a series of small astonishments. I get the same thing spending an hour with you.
They know that tragedy is not glamorous. They know it doesn't play out in life as it does on a stage or between the pages of a book. It is neither a punishment meted out nor a lesson conferred. Its horrors are not attributable to one single person. Tragedy is ugly and tangled, stupid and confusing.
He was contemplation and enthusiasm. Ambition and strong coffee. I could have looked at him forever.
It shattered something inside me that hadn't been broken before.