“Fuck art,” she said. “I mean really, Michael. Fuck art, okay? Isn’t it funny how we’ve gone chasing after it all our lives? Dying to be close to anyone who seemed to understand it, as if that could possibly help; never stopping to wonder if it might be hopelessly beyond us all the way – or even if it might not exist? Because there’s an interesting proposition for you: what if it doesn’t exist?”
He thought it over, or rather made a grave Little show of pretending to think it over, holding his own drink firmly on the table.
“Well, no, I’m sorry dear,” he began, knowing at once that the ‘dear’ should have been edited out of the sentence, “I can’t go along with you on that one. If I ever thought it didn’t exist I think I’d—I don’t know. Blow my brains out, or something.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” she told him, putting her glass down again. “You might relax for the first time in your life. You might quit smoking.”
de Young Hearts Crying, Richard Yates.
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