4
" Knowing, above all, that I would come looking, and find what he had left for me, all that remained of The Jungle Book in the pocket of his doctor’s coat, that folder-up, yellowed page torn from the back of the book, with a bristle of thick, coarse hairs clenced inside. Galina, says my grandfather’s handwriting, above and below a child’s drawing of the tiger, who is curved like the blade of a scimitar across the page. Galina, it says, and that is how I know to find him again, in Galina, in the story he hadn’t told me but perhaps wished he had. "
― Téa Obreht
14
" My grandfather would pet the dog, and, in a voice that made him sound like some kind of children's program puppet, he would say: "You're a dog! You're a dog! Where are you? You're a dog!" and the dog's tongue would drop out of its mouth and it would start keening.
After a few hours of this, I said, "Jesus Grandpa, I get it, he's a dog," not knowing that, just a few years later, I would be reminding every dog I met on the street that it was a dog, and asking it where it was. "
― Téa Obreht , The Tiger's Wife
15
" Whoever had thought to instate a watering hole in this spot could not have been a woman. It was impossible to linger here without feeling observed. The goblin barrens rose up on either side of the path ahead; bulbous gnomons; knotted terraces; wedge-headed hoodoos, each a narrows into some otherworld. Eastern dudes were known to pay good money to be brought through here and stand around in their frills, trying to guess where, in this maze of stone, some outlaw or another had laired in the old days...
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All of her boys had augured themselves in this valley. Rob -- her son through and through, bullheaded and quick-tempered, beloved abroad and withdrawn at home -- was a wild and unheeding child of the silver camps. In the eerie, misshapen stones of this valley, he had recognized what he most loved of the world. Today, this rock might resemble the Green River railhead; tomorrow, a buffalo -- shapes he had pursued through dime novels...
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Where Rob saw abstractions of the world, Dolan saw facts, the plain passionless truth of things: stone carved by water and wind, and nothing more. He dismantled Rob's visions accordingly; of a geographic depression resembling a woman's skirts, he had once said, "That's just a bajada, you idiot -- can't you see?...
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And then there was Toby, of course -- a man apart. Where the goblins were concerned, he went in for the old prospectors' stories: the stones were maidens, usually, endungeoned or cursed with immobility, awaiting some providential intercession...
This one makes me sad Mama, he'd once said of a caravan of knotty lumps.
Why lamb?
It's a lost remuda, and they're trying to get home. And they never will. It makes me sad. "
― Téa Obreht , Inland
16
" When your fight has purpose—to free you from something, to interfere on the behalf of an innocent—it has a hope of finality. When the fight is about unraveling—when it is about your name, the places to which your blood is anchored, the attachment of your name to some landmark or event—there is nothing but hate, and the long, slow progression of people who feed on it and are fed it, meticulously, by the ones who come before them. Then the fight is endless, and comes in waves and waves, but always retains its capacity to surprise those who hope against it. "
― Téa Obreht , The Tiger's Wife
