“George had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.”
“Confident that he was clever, resourceful, and bold enough to escape any predicament, he was almost incapable of discouragement. When history carried him into war, this resilient optimism would define him.”
I have now been six years with M. Noirtier, and let him tell you if ever once, during that time, he has entertained a thought which he was unable to make me understand.
But one morning the Duck woke up early. He tiptoed into the kitchen and smiled at the Squirrel’s special spoon. “Wouldn’t it be fine,” he murmured, “If I could be the Head Cook.” He drew up a stool, hopped on top, and reached... until his beak just touched the tip of the spoon...Down it clattered. Then the Duck trotted back to the bedroom, help up the spoon, and said, “Today it’s my turn to stir the soup.”
“Pablo looked different, and it took me a moment to figure out how. He had a smile, a smile that showed his teeth, a smile that made his eyes scrunch up. He was making a little high-pitched chipmunk sound. Pablo was laughing.”
“Many of us felt that we had plenty of character. There was a tremendous urge to cease forever. Yet we found it impossible. This is the baffling feature of alcoholism as we know it – this utter inability to leave it alone, no matter how great the necessity or the wish.”
“It seemed so awfully ungrateful to go away and leave the laurels to their fate when they had always been so obliging and hidden me from Nurse with their poor, ugly, sooty, Victorian leaves.”