I finished Carson McCullers's The Heart is a Lonely Hunter this weekend. I had trouble getting into this book until the end and found myself only really interested in the sections about Mick. Something changes at the end though. The writing becomes more lyrical and the characters more vulnerable. There are some beautiful passages. This is my favorite:
But now no music was in her mind. That was a funny thing. It was like she was shut out from the inside room. Sometimes a quick little tune would come and go—but she never went into the inside room with music like she used to do. It was like she was too tense. Or maybe because it was like the store took all her energy and time. Woolworth’s wasn’t the same as school. When she used to come home from school she felt good and was ready to start working on the music. But now she was always tired. At home she just ate supper and slept and then ate breakfast and went off to the store again. A song she had started in her private notebook two months before was still not finished. And she wanted to stay in the inside room but she didn’t know how. It was like the inside room was locked somewhere away from her. A very hard thing to understand."
Now, I know why I picked this book up. This is exactly what I have been thinking about and fretting about for quite a while. I keep telling myself I'll find time—but I rarely do. I haven't written anything new for over a month. Tear.