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Kathleen Tessaro

Kathleen Tessaro Books

Short story writer

Elegance

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Rare Objects

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“رایحه یک آرزو و هدف است. نه فقط ابزاری برای اغواگری، بلکه برای قدرت و مقام. می دانی باستانیان چقدر برای کُندُر یا درخت مُر می پرداختند؟ کل امپراتوری آنها بر اساس تجارت این کالا ساخته شده بود. می بینی، حتی بعد، وقتی زندگی کوتاه و ظالمانه بود، مردم می خواستند بوی متفاوتی بدهند و از خود بی خود شوند.”

“[...] I look in the mirror every day, when I brush my teeth or wash my face or comb my hair. It's just I tend to look at myself in pieces and avoid joining them up all together. I don't know why; it just feels safer that way. But tonight I force myself to look at the whole thing. And suddenly I see how the bits and pieces add up to someone I'm not familiar with, someone I never intended to be.”

“You English have a saying. "Come to your senses."' 'Yes.' 'What do you think it means?' 'It means to be reasonable, sensible.' She looked across at him. 'Doesn't it?' 'Maybe.' His eyes caught the afternoon light; flickering amber, flecked with green. 'What else could it mean?' 'Perhaps it's an invitation. Maybe we need to literally come to our senses, to return to our sense of taste, touch, sight, smell, hearing and find sustenance in them, inspiration. Life is, after all, a sensual experience. Our senses have the power to truly transport us but also to ground us. Make us human.”

“Most people assume that a muse is a creature of perfect beauty, poise and grace. Like the creatures from Greek mythology. They're wrong. In fact, there should be a marked absence of perfection in a muse--a gaping hole between what she is and what she might be. The ideal muse is a woman whose rough edges and contradictions drive you to fill in the blanks of her character. She is the irritant to your creativity. A remarkable possibility, waiting to be formed.”

“My husband claims I have an unhealthy obsession with secondhand bookshops. That I spend too much time daydreaming altogether. But either you intrinsically understand the attraction of searching for hidden treasure amongst rows of dusty shelves or you don't; it's a passion, bordering on a spiritual illness, which cannot be explained to the unaffected.”