Nina Goodheart

Often I find myself writing about an apparent subject that is concealing an almost opposite object. To write about hatred is to see love, vividly. Violence, intimacy. Divinity, humanity.

— Catherine Lacey, The Möbius Book

Yet books were finite, podcasts were finite, films had last frames, everything has an end or if not an end then at least—sure, OK, fine—a deadline. Couldn’t we at least find an adequate phrase or image that didn’t feel like a cop-out, a feint, or a compromise? Couldn’t we reach an ending that didn’t lie about the end?

— Catherine Lacey, The Möbius B

Maybe I was just looking for something to be angry about, craving the way anger turns the contrast up on a day.

— Catherine Lacey, The Möbius Book

Symbolism is both hollow and solid, a crutch, yes, but what’s so wrong with needing help to get around?

— Catherine Lacey, The Möbius Book

I thought I had been caring for him in the ways I knew how—the thousand domestic actions, the long walks, simply being there—yet if he hadn’t registered any of my actions as care, had my caring existed?

— Catherine Lacey, The Möbius Book

What I want instead are blazing miracles. I want crystal clear visions, a burning bush, the voice of a goddamn god.

— Catherine Lacey, The Möbius Book

Without God, what was a body? Just a place to wait.

— Catherine Lacey, The Möbius Book

Hope is visible in the objects in our homes. Identities and plans rest dormant in a stack of books. The kitchen pantry reassures us of our future nourishment. A toolbox is the confidence that we can fix what will break. Little notes to self. Little notes of self. The secret language of things we use to fold life into time, time into life.

— Catheri