[b]Meg Wolitzer
Irony was new to her and tasted oddly good, like a previously unavailable summer fruit.[/b]
Remember when irony was new to you? Of course no one ever forgets that, right?
It wasn’t easy to understand how the love between two other people could diminish you.
Or, sure, it isn’t easy to not understand this.
Soon, she and the rest of them would be ironic much of the time, unable to answer an innocent question without giving their words a snide little adjustment. Fairly soon after that, the snideness would soften, the irony would be mixed in with seriousness, and the years would shorten and fly.
True, but it’s all just part of being an adult.
Love transcended breath, eczema, fear of sex, and an imbalance in physical appearance. If love was real, then these bodily, human details could seem insignificant.
Back again to this: So they tell me.
…the Iraq war was the Ishtar of wars.
Of course Don Trump hasn’t had his yet.
In March 1997, Jules and Dennis went to dinner at Ash and Ethan’s house along with Duncan and Shyla, the portfolio manager and the literary advocate. The prick and the cunt, Jules had once called them. Jules and Dennis had never understood why Ash and Ethan liked this couple so much, but they’d all been thrown together so many times over the years, for casual evenings and more formal celebrations, that it was too late to ask. Duncan and Shyla must have felt equally puzzled at Ash and Ethan’s fidelity to their old friends the social worker and the depressive. No one said a word against anyone; everyone went to the dinners to which they were invited. Both couples knew they satisfied a different part of Ash and Ethan, but when they all came together in one place, the group made no sense.
Just another postmodern moment.