Quotes from Lynn Coady

And thank you for not putting it in your book. And fuck you for not putting it in your book.

Then there are the other days, when nothing is enough. The poem grins. It grins because it knows it is a terrible poem. It grins in embarrassment. It grins in pity. It grins in superiority. I may be a terrible poem, it grins, but at least I have one comfort. At least I'm not a terrible *poet*. At least I'm not the guy who sat in front of a typewriter for two hours coming up with the likes of *me*.

Just think of all the confidence we start out with, all the certainty. And then we embark and we fail, much to our surprise. And then we fail something else, and gradually the surprise dwindles and soon we are surprised by nothing and thus are made adults.

She comes to naught, my dear one, she comes to naught, all that there business. What the hell, maybe twice in your life you have yourself a whore of a good time, and then you spend every night of the rest of your life trying to get that good time back. But she comes to naught.

What I'm saying is, a lot of boys don't bother growing into men, because they don't have to--their bodies have already done it and it turns out that's all anybody requires.

There is something about knowing you are not safe in sleep that gives a person bad dreams. The expectation of being woken every night — that feeling of insecurity and dread I remember carrying around with me as my marriage was drawing to a close, like a rotting smell I couldn't find the source of, shit I didn't know I stepped in. The subconscious starts sending messages: Be vigilant. Don't relax. Here's a boogeyman or two to keep your nerves on edge.

Of course, the bulk of these monoliths remains underwater. Hence the old "tip of the iceberg" saying. To mean: This is just the beginning. You think this is something? This is nothing.