All page numbers from the trade paperback edition published by Harcourt
My family isn’t posh; they’re musicians.
Running is many things to me: survival, calmness, euphoria, solitude. It is proof of my corporeal existence, my ability to control my movement through space if not time, and the obedience, however temporary, of my body to my will.
“But don’t you think,” I persist, “that it’s better to be extremely happy for a short while, even if you lose it, than to be just okay for your whole life?”
That’s what I love you for: your inability to perceive all my hideous flaws.
Clare takes a mouthful, swallows it in a businesslike fashion, and says, “Well, that’s not so bad.”
“That’s a twenty-something-dollar bottle of wine.”
“Oh. Well, that was marvelous.”
But as usual there’s no answer to this. As usual, that’s just how it is.