Quotes from Elizabeth Crane

For one thing, she hadn't exactly chosen a field; although she has since childhood imagined picking up her Oscar, the category has never been determined. There was some thought that by the time she grew up they would give out Oscars for Best Novel (and that by then she would have written one), or that maybe she would just get some kind of honorary Oscar for her distinctive life observations made in everyday conversations, or the occasional letter.

Russell made a comment to Charlotte about how she struck him as being really kind of healthy, in an emotional way, which wasn't completely surprising -- she knew she was fairly adroit at making people think she had it going on in that way (which gets into another whole thing about whether that was really a useful trait, which in fact she was pretty sure it wasn't, considering that maybe she could actually get some help from people, if she were willing to admit she needed any).

Your self-doubt resides elsewhere and calcifies until it's not even doubt anymore. You are certain that everything else about you is bad. You're definitely not the best person. You're not the prettiest, you're not the thinnest, you're not the smartest, you're not the -est anything, except when it comes to singing. You do know how talented you are. This may be the only thing about you that you know is truly good.

You believe in expressing all feelings at all times, though this has never been a successful practice for you insofar as your feeling-expression resulting in any real change.

The man, as you add it up, does whatever he feels like or doesn't, and the woman does everything else. The why of it, you have no idea.

Everything that comes into Jean's view these days is met with this kind of abject indifference. She feels as thought she has exhausted her life's allotment of emotion, good and bad.

He's failed her as much as she's betrayed him. Nothing more needs to be known or said.

But the point is that I didn't want this book to depict events with any accuracy. I am a fan of whatever you want to call this category of fiction in which authors use their real names for their character names.

Percival Everett by Virgil Russell

you're disappointed that he doesn't get it, though you're not surprised. He's never really gotten you. He loves you and takes care of you, and you thought that would be enough.