65 Quotes About Sara-baume

I remember the book I was reading. Hour of the Star by Clarice Lispector. I remember because there were so many things in Hour of the Star with which I found kinship that I'd brought along a stub of pencil in case I urgently needed to underline.

I can't remember the name of the piece, or the artist. Maybe it wasn't even an artwork. Why must I automatically assume that every strange object is a sculpture, that every public display of unorthodox behavior is an act of performance.

Whether or not I want to see him, I do not want him to see me.

How easy to be electrocuted. How fine the line between beauty and peril.

I think: I can read into anything. I think: I can read into nothing at all.

It makes me wonder if living under tragic circumstances inflects a person's sentences, irresistibly, with poetry.

The worse things get, the more onerous they are to put right again. But this applies to every aspect of life.

We rarely saw each other outside the walls of the gallery, but inside its glaring white spaces, to exorcise the tedium of the tasks we shared, Ben and I often ended up talking, and time and time again, he would say things that resonated so powerfully with my uneasiness about life, and back there and then, I believed it was an uneasiness unique to us, and that we were somehow bound by it.

But now I am beginning to understand we all become tyrants beneath our own roof slates. Or maybe we don't; maybe it's just my father and me—the tyrannical gene I inherited from him.