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A changeableness, too, as if beneath my visible face there was another, having second thoughts.

Jeffrey Eugenides

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Jeffrey Eugenides
Age: 64
Born: 1960
Born: March 8
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
Detroit
Michigan
Jeffrey Kent Eugenides
Thoughts
Second
Face
Faces
Another
Beneath
Prose
Visible

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It was something every child knew how to do, maintain a direct and full connection with the world. Somehow you forgot about it as you grew up, and had to learn it again.
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Three times a day Petrovich showed up at the nurse's office for his injections, always using the hypodermic needle himself like the most craven of junkies, though after shooting up he would play the concert piano in the auditorium with astounding artistry, as though insulin were the elixir of genius.
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The zipper opened all the way down our spines.
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She held herself very straight, like Audrey Hepburn, whom all women idolize and men never think about.
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We listened to them, but it was clear they'd received too much therapy to know the truth.
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College wasn't like the real world. In the real world people dropped names based on their renown. In college, people dropped names based on their obscurity.
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The seeds of death get lost in the mess that God made us.
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I know that attaching memories to books may be going out of the world, but while it lasts, it's a strong record of your life.
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At night the cries of cats making love or fighting, their caterwauling in the dark, told us that the world was pure emotion, flung back and forth among its creatures, the agony of the one-eyed Siamese no different from that of the Lisbon girls, and even the trees plunged in feeling.
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He remained heartbroken, which meant one of two things: either his love was pure and true and earthshakingly significant or he was addicted to feeling forlorn, he liked being heartbroken.
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Added to their loveliness was a new mysterious suffering, perfectly silent, visible in the blue puffiness beneath their eyes or the way they would sometimes stop in mid-stride, look down, and shake their heads as though disagreeing with life.
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that since Cecilia’s suicide, the Lisbon’s could hardly wait for the night to forget themselves in sleep
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There is a small window of opportunity for freckled girls to tan.
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I was aware that you weren't supposed to write about suburbia, that it was undignified in some way, the subject matter not momentous enough. And so, for a long time, that kept me from writing about it. But once I began, I realized it was just as interesting as anywhere else.
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I think, especially when you're in college, each book that you're reading tends to tell you who you are.
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There was nowhere I could go that wouldn't be you.
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But what humans forget, cells remember. The body, that elephant
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