The Broken Bridge | 
“You can‘t go back,” Stuart said. “You can only go forward. You can‘t forget, either. You have to use everything you know.”
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“You can‘t go back,” Stuart said. “You can only go forward. You can‘t forget, either. You have to use everything you know.”
She lay back in the warm night, in the magic circle of light under the old tree, with Chopin coming faintly across the imaginary lake, with her beloved father close by, and felt unbearably rich.
The reason for all of this is quite simple, Ginny: it‘s fear.
the two ladies would comb the sand dunes in the evening sunlight, chattering musically, the very souls of sweetness and melancholy.
Maybe art itself was a kind of voodoo, possessing you, giving you supernatural power, letting you see in the dark.
“I don‘t want to shut the rest of the world out. I want to hear the music coming quietly from a distance, with all the night around it. As if you‘re hearing it through the open windows of a great house across a lake …”
When you try to be friendly you expose yourself to so many embarrassments, she thought. It‘s probably better to be selfish and say to hell with it
I‘m just a white kid with a black face, that‘s what I am. Don‘t belong anywhere.
Finding out something about yourself that other people have known and haven‘t told you makes you feel stupid,
on this side, the seaward side, there was a space of magic and beauty, Ginny‘s realm, her kingdom, her queendom.
she knew that the story was part of her now, part of what made her what she was.
He must be a film star, she thought; no one could be that handsome and not be famous for it.
