the colour of memory

This book is like an album of snaps. In any snaps strangers intrude; the prints preserve an intimacy that lasted only for a fraction of a second as someone, unnoticed at the time, strayed unintentionally into the picture frame. Hidden among the familiar, laughing faces of friends are the glimpsed shapes of strangers; and in the distant homes of tourists there YOU are, at the edge of the frame, slightly out of focus, in the midst of other people's memories. We stray into each other's lives. In the course of any day in any city it happens thousands of times and every now and again it is caught on film. That is what is happening here. Look closely and maybe there, close to the margin of the page, you will find the hurried glance of your own image: queuing at the bar, hurrying for the bus, drinking beer on a roof, bleeding on the floor of the tube (I wanted to help you but was too frightened; I'm sorry, I really am).

The colour of memory
Geoff Dyer



Fantasy love is much better than reality love. Never doing it is very exciting. The most exciting attractions are between two opposites that never meet.




Sonny saying "C", you only get three great ones in life (he was talking about women).
C asks Sonny: How can I spot a great one?
Sonny says give her the door test.
Go pick up the girl. Before you get out of the car, make sure both doors are locked.
Unlock the door for her and let her get in. Then go around the back of the car and look through the rear window. If she doesn't reach over and unlock the door for you, then dump her quick, because she is selfish.

A Bronx Tale




I never told her that- what her affectionate and unconditional acceptance meant to me. So much, too much, of the good that i felt in those years of exile was locked in the prison cell of my heart: those tall walls of fear; that small, barred window of hope; that hard bed of shame. I do speak out now. I know now that when the loving, honest moment comes it should be seized, and spoken, because it may never come again. And unvoiced, unmoving, unlived in the things we declare from heart to heart, those true and real feelings wither and crumble in the remembering hand that tries too late to reach for them.

Shantaram
Gregory David Roberts