I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.
Michael Cunningham, CC BY-SA 4.0
What a thrill, what a shock, to be alive on a morning in June, prosperous, almost scandalously privileged, with a simple errand to run.
Michael Cunningham, CC BY-SA 4.0
Why doesn't she feel more somber about Richard's perversely simultaneous good fortune ("an anguished, prophetic voice in American letters") and his decline ("You have no T-cells at all, none that we can detect")? What is wrong with her? She loves Richard, she thinks of him constantly, but she perhaps loves the day slightly more.
Michael Cunningham, CC BY-SA 4.0
The woman's head quickly withdraws, the door to the trailer closes again, but she leaves behind her an unmistakable sense of watchful remonstrance, as if an angel had briefly touched the surface of the world with one sandaled foot, asked if there was any trouble and, being told all was well, had resumed her place in the ether with skeptical gravity, having reminded the children of earth that they are just barely trusted to manage their own business, and that further carelessness will not go unremarked.
Michael Cunningham, CC BY-SA 4.0
He makes her think sometimes of a mouse singing amorous ballads under the window of a giantess.
Michael Cunningham, CC BY-SA 4.0
...the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.
Michael Cunningham, CC BY-SA 4.0

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