Sublime

an encumbrance might also be thought of as an anchor, and what he’d found himself thinking lately was that he wouldn’t mind being more anchored to this earth.

Had grounded them and introduced them to a way of life they would aspire to and return to.

Grace Macaulay, then: seventeen, small and plump, with skin that went brown by the end of May. Her hair was black and oily, and had the hot consoling scent of an animal in summer. She disliked books, and was by nature a thief if she found a thing to be beautiful, but not hers. She didn’t know she couldn’t sing. She was inclined to be cross.

And then he had to stop walking, because—at that precise moment—he understood exactly how much he loved her.

Charles Dickens

precocious.

The old man looks out at the smears of rain vibrating on the window glass. His smile fades. “But Arthur, there is hope.” The great author quietly says:

glib.