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A review by jmooremyers
The Weight of Ink by Rachel Kadish
4.0
There was life in her. And desire. A flame leapt in her, defiant of the bounds in which she'd prisoned it. How could desire be wrong - the question seized her - if each living being contained it? Each creature was born with the unthinking need to draw each next breath, find each next meal. Mustn't desire then be integral - a set of essential guideposts on the map of life's purpose? And mightn't its very denial then be a desecration? The thoughts were heretical, and they were her own. (p 133)
For the first time she thought, I understand why we sleep. To slip the knot of the world. (p 368)
The greatest act of love - indeed, the only religion she could comprehend - was to speak the truth about the world. Love must be, then, an act of truth-telling, a baring of mind and spirit just as ardent as the baring of the body. Truth and passion were one, and each impossible without the other. (p 391)
He'd once believed in a plain, patent world, in which whatever was noteworthy cried out proudly for attention. Now he saw how readily the most essential things went unseen. (p 495)
The greatest curse, he thought, was to be stuck in one's own time - and the greatest power was to see beyond its horizons. Studying history had given him the illusion of observing safely from outside the trap. Only that's what the world was: a trap. The circumstances you were born to, the situations you found yourself in - to dodge that fray was impossible. And what you did within it was your life. Hadn't Helen tried to tell him so? (p 547)
For the first time she thought, I understand why we sleep. To slip the knot of the world. (p 368)
The greatest act of love - indeed, the only religion she could comprehend - was to speak the truth about the world. Love must be, then, an act of truth-telling, a baring of mind and spirit just as ardent as the baring of the body. Truth and passion were one, and each impossible without the other. (p 391)
He'd once believed in a plain, patent world, in which whatever was noteworthy cried out proudly for attention. Now he saw how readily the most essential things went unseen. (p 495)
The greatest curse, he thought, was to be stuck in one's own time - and the greatest power was to see beyond its horizons. Studying history had given him the illusion of observing safely from outside the trap. Only that's what the world was: a trap. The circumstances you were born to, the situations you found yourself in - to dodge that fray was impossible. And what you did within it was your life. Hadn't Helen tried to tell him so? (p 547)