6
" But he finds solidarity here, linking himself with all those quiet types who looked upon blank surfaces with expectation, those who mark objects to erase themselves, who dissolve in the bliss of work. Pinch raises his brush, leans forward on the balls of his feet, floorboards creaking. From the corner of his eye: all these painterly tools, a kaleidoscope of colors, his companions. Is that tragedy? That the peaks of my life are entirely inside? Other people - those I so craved - mattered far less than it seemed. Or is this what I pretend? As the tide of sadness flows closer, he returns to work, misplacing himself there, though it’s his own image taking shape before him. "
― Tom Rachman , The Italian Teacher
9
" Alone, he inches up the entrance stairs, struggles for the house key in a tight pocket, and makes it inside his flat, the dogs snuffling his trouser legs. He can’t even crouch to pat them. He stands there, cringing to recall an hour ago. So pathetic, still trying at this age, like the last middle-aged man on the dance floor. That, he decides, was my final attempt. Enough. Enough of other people. All I need is my cottage: Disappear there, stay within the borders of a canvas. That is my company. "
― Tom Rachman , The Italian Teacher
