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Elizabeth Hay

Elizabeth Hay Books

Novelist

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“They were like an iceberg, it occurred to me, my father the seven-eighths that was under the water and my mother the luminous portion riding the waves. But no, they were two icebergs: solitary phenomena, impressive, independent, known only to themselves. I felt their hidden seven-eighths inside me as a dark bulkiness whose outlines I was always trying to map.”

“They were like an iceberg, it occurred to me, my father the seven-sights that was under the water and my mother the luminous portion riding the waves. But no, they were two icebergs: solitary phenomena, impressive, independent, known only to themselves. I felt their hidden seven-eighths inside me as a dark bulkiness whose outlines I was always trying to map.”

“The mistakes don't matter," he informed her one night after she stumbled over a station ID and apologized on air. "It's the recovery that counts." If she had a nickel for every one of his smiles, she'd have ten cents. She nodded sheepishly, preferring Harry's way of phrasing the same point. "I learned that a mistake is just something you go on from." Harry's advice gave her a route to follow, a path forward. Somehow Eddy managed to exchange one form of stress for another.”

“People elude me by halves. I see only the good, then only the bad. I never see them whole. I have no explanation for this. No explanation for the coolness that stretches out between my periods of warmth, the disaffection between my periods of affection. I touch people when I talk to them. I put my hand on a newcomer's knee, or hand, or arm, and immediately the new person is drawn into an intimacy that I cannot sustain. People are charmed by my warmth and disconcerted to discover that it doesn't last.”