The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

art is about ideas. And ideas are wilder than memories. They’re like weeds, always finding their way up

There are a hundred kinds of silence. There’s the thick silence of places long sealed shut, and the muffled silence of ears stoppered up. The empty silence of the dead, and the heavy silence of the dying. There is the hollow silence of a man who has stopped praying, and the airy silence of an empty synagogue, and the held-breath silence of someone hiding from themselves. There is the awkward silence that fills the space between people who don’t know what to say. And the taut silence that falls over those who do, but don’t know where or how to start. Henry doesn’t know what kind of silence this is, but it is killing him.

one of the vicious little details tucked like nettles in the grass. Hidden barbs designed to sting.

The old gods may be great, but they are neither kind nor merciful. They are fickle, unsteady as moonlight on water, or shadows in a storm. If you insist on calling them, take heed: be careful what you ask for, be willing to pay the price. And no matter how desperate or dire, never pray to the gods that answer after dark.

So much of life becomes routine, but food is like music, like art, replete with the promise of something new.

name, it strikes like flint on his tongue, sparks an answering light behind her ribs.

watch the day begin, to feel, at least for a little while, like he was ahead instead of behind.

, she dreams of sleepy mornings over coffee, legs draped across a lap, inside jokes and easy laughter, but those comforts come with the knowing. There can be no slow build, no quiet lust, intimacy fostered over days, weeks, months. Not for them. So she longs for the mornings, but she settles for the nights, and if it cannot be love, well, then, at least it is not lonely.

One for every life she’d lead.

One for every god watching over her

One for every life she’d lead.

One for every god watching over her.