Quote

The window was still open.” Mr Lisbon said. “I don’t think we’d ever remembered to shut it. It was all clear to me. I knew I had to close it or else she’d go on jumping out of it forever

Jeffrey Eugenides

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Jeffrey Eugenides
Age: 64
Born: 1960
Born: March 8
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
Detroit
Michigan
Jeffrey Kent Eugenides
Still
Window
Ever
Close
Think
Knew
Thinking
Open
Lisbon
Forever
Jumping
Clear
Shut
Else
Remembered
Stills
Suicide

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She'd become an English major for the purest and dullest of reasons: because she loved to read.
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I'm not really an autobiographical writer, though I use lots of stuff from my life to make my stories seem real. But when I actually write about myself, I get very confused.
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What I do when I create a character is put in details from all the people I know who might be like that person, and then put in a huge amount of myself.
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Every letter was a love letter. Of course, as love letters went, this one could have been better. It was not very promising, for instance, that Madeleine claimed not to want to see him for the next half-century.
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The following doodle: a girl with pigtails is bent under the weight of a gigantic boulder. Her cheeks puff out, and her rounded lips expel steam. One widening steam cloud contains the word Pressure, darkly retraced.
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There was nowhere I could go that wouldn't be you.
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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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A changeableness, too, as if beneath my visible face there was another, having second thoughts.
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We realized that the version of the world they rendered for us was not the version of the world they really believed in.
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It was like autumn, looking at her. it was like driving up north to see the colors.
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no reason to mention my peculiarities, my wandering in the maze these many years, shut away from sight. and from love, too.
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Paris was a museum displaying exactly itself.
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They're just memories now. Time to write them off.
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Now all the mute objects of my life seem to tell my story, to stretch back in time, if I look closely enough.
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It was one of those humid days when the atmosphere gets confused. Sitting on the porch, you could feel it: the air wishing it was water.
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Every letter was a love letter.
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We Greeks are a moody people. Suicide makes sense to us. Putting up Christmas lights after your own daughter does it--that makes no sense. What my yia yia could never understand about America was why everyone pretended to be happy all the time.” -Mrs. Karafilis
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