Autumn

Thank you for having me, death. Please excuse me, must get back to it, life.

A great many men don’t understand a woman full of joy, even more don’t understand paintings full of joy by a woman.

Life? was what you worked to catch, the intense happiness of an object slightly set apart from you. Painting? was what you did, alone, and you sat there, and it was your own terrible fight or your own lovely bit, but it was really terribly alone.

To take the moment before something had actually happened, and you didn’t know if it was going to be terrible or if it might be very funny, something extraordinary actually happening and yet everybody around it not taking any notice at all.

And whoever makes up the story makes up the world, Daniel said. So always try to welcome people into the home of your story. That’s my suggestion.

How does making things up welcome people? Elisabeth said.

What I’m suggesting, Daniel said, is, if you’re telling a story, always give your characters the same benefit of the doubt you’d welcome when it comes to yourself.

She liked doing melancholy things like that.

You will stop trusting me, and quite right, because I’d be a liar. We’ll all be lessened by the lie.

Always be reading something, he said. Even when we’re not physically reading. How else will we read the world? Think of it as a constant.

The lifelong friends, he said. We sometimes wait a lifetime for them

Regrets when you’re dead? A past when you’re dead? Is there never any escaping the junkshop of the self?