“[…] What is literature, and what do we want from it? The former is a key question, which I’m going to duck. What do we want from it? Many things. One is an expression of something otherwise inexpressible. An ineffability, by which you don’t at all have to be a person of faith to have your breath taken away. […]”—China Miéville, The future of the novel, «The Guardian», 21 agosto 2012
“You can’t really succeed with a novel anyway; they’re too big. It’s like city planning. You can’t plan a perfect city because there’s too much going on that you can’t take into account. You can, however, write a perfect sentence now and then. I have.” -Gore Vidal
In the minutes after the train left each station, the conductor must have had to make some electrical switch, and the lights and fans would shut off, throwing the train into a gray and papered hush. The twilit storm let in. At Lord’s Point, the car dimmed just as the train came out over the inlet and they seemed suddenly submerged, suspended on every side by water. The harbor sea-wide with rain. The boats bobbed but held, their moorings tied fast as the heart to its wish that an old lover lead a life unrecognizable from the one you dreamed up then. The mornings, the plans lost in shoulders.
Please stay dark, Sonja said to the train. Maybe her lips were moving. I want the sky like this till home. The lights hummed back on, daring her. Was there anything she hadn’t wanted once?