profoundly limited

“How did you fall in love with Aunt Frances?” I asked. “Ah,” said Uncle Julian, and mopped his forehead, which was shiny and damp. He was going a little bald, but in a handsome way. “You really want to know?” “Yes.” “She was wearing blue tights.” “What do you mean?” “I saw her at the zoo in front of the chimpanzee cage, and she was wearing blue tights. And I thought: That’s the girl I’m going to marry.” “Because of her tights?” “Yes. The light was shining on her in a very nice way. And she was completely transfixed by this one chimp. But if it hadn’t been for the tights, I don’t think I would have ever gone up to her.” “Do you ever think about what would have happened if she’d decided not to wear those tights that day?” “All the time,” said Uncle Julian. “I might have been a much happier man.” I pushed the tikka masala around my plate. “But probably not,” he said.

-Nicole Krauss

“How did you fall in love with Aunt Frances?” I asked. “Ah,” said Uncle Julian, and mopped his forehead, which was shiny and damp. He was going a little bald, but in a handsome way. “You really want to know?” “Yes.” “She was wearing blue tights.” “What do you mean?” “I saw her at the zoo in front of the chimpanzee cage, and she was wearing blue tights. And I thought: That’s the girl I’m going to marry.” “Because of her tights?” “Yes. The light was shining on her in a very nice way. And she was completely transfixed by this one chimp. But if it hadn’t been for the tights, I don’t think I would have ever gone up to her.” “Do you ever think about what would have happened if she’d decided not to wear those tights that day?” “All the time,” said Uncle Julian. “I might have been a much happier man.” I pushed the tikka masala around my plate. “But probably not,” he said.

-Nicole Krauss

✖ ⟲ Reblog ✒Nicole Krauss ✒The History of Love ✒lit

Maybe the first time you saw her you were ten. She was standing in the sun scratching her legs. Or tracing letters in the dirt with a stick. Her hair was being pulled. Or she was pulling someone’s hair. And a part of you was drawn to her, and a part of you resisted—wanting to ride off on your bicycle, kick a stone, remain uncomplicated. In the same breath you felt the strength of a man, and a self-pity that made you feel small and hurt. Part of you thought: Please don’t look at me. If you don’t, I can still turn away. And part of you thought: Look at me.

— Nicole Krauss, The History of Love

✖ ⟲ Reblog ✒Nicole Krauss ✒The History of Love ✒lit

Herman slipped his hand into mine, and I thought, An average of seventy-four species become extinct every day, which was one good reason but not the only one to hold someone’s hand, and the next thing that happened was we kissed each other, and I found I knew how, and I felt happy and sad in equal parts, because I knew that I was falling in love, but it wasn’t with him.

—

The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss

As summer winds down, the familiar motions of re-reading have begun.

This book makes me feel sixteen again. But one of these days, it’s going to have to turn into the text I carry with me, instead of something that signifies a time that’s no longer accessible. Especially considering how often I re-read it.

✖ ⟲ Reblog ✒nicole krauss ✒the history of love ✒lit

Wittgenstein once wrote that when the eye sees something beautiful, the hand wants to draw it. I wish I could draw you.

— The History of Love, Nicole Krauss (via fuckyeahliteraryquotes)

✖ ❖ Source: fuckyeahliteraryquotes ⟲ Reblog ✒Nicole Krauss ✒The History of Love ✒lit