But sometimes, unexpectedly, grief pounded over me in waves that left me gasping; and when the waves washed back, I found myself looking out over a brackish wreck which was illumined in a light so lucid, so heartsick and empty, that I could hardly remember that the world had ever been anything but dead.
Interpretation
Grief can overwhelm us unexpectedly, leaving us feeling lost and empty.
In this quote, Donna Tartt reflects on the overwhelming nature of grief, describing it as waves that can crash over a person, leaving them gasping for air. This poignant imagery illustrates the deep impact of loss, where the aftermath feels like a desolate landscape devoid of life and color, making it hard to recall moments of joy or vitality in the past.
In practice
In a talk on dealing with trauma, one might share this quote to highlight the unexpected nature of grief.
Does such a thing as 'the fatal flaw,' that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.
Caring too much for objects can destroy you. Only—if you care for a thing enough, it takes on a life of its own, doesn’t it? And isn’t the whole point of things—beautiful things—that they connect you to some larger beauty?
And the flavor of Pippa's kiss--bittersweet and strange--stayed with me all the way back uptown, swaying and sleepy as I sailed home on the bus, melting with sorrow and loveliness, a starry ache that lifted me up above the windswept city like a kite: my head in the rainclouds, my heart in the sky.
Does such a thing as "the fatal flaw," that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature?
I've written only two novels, but they're both long ones, and they each took a decade to write.
The books I loved in childhood - the first loves - I’ve read so often that I’ve internalized them in some really essential way: they are more inside me now than out.
Life is not a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes, playing a poor hand well.
It is often said that New York is a city for only the very rich and the very poor. It is less often said that New York is also, at least for those of us who came there from somewhere else, a city for only the very young.
But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.
Even when life challenges us, it's a gift beyond all measure.
The Indian Summer of life should be a little sunny and a little sad, like the season, and infinite in wealth and depth of tone, but never hustled.
This is the strangest life I've ever known.
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