Dionne Quotes

Books leave gestures in the body; a certain way of moving, of turning, a certain closing of the eyes, a way of leaving, hesitations. Books leave certain sounds, a certain pacing; mostly they leave the elusive, which is all the story. They leave much more than the words.

I am not nostalgic. Belonging does not interest me. I had once thought that it did. Until I examined the underpinnings. One is mislead when one looks at the sails and majesty of tall ships instead of their cargo.

They were born in the city from people born elsewhere.

a boat, even a wrecked and wretched boat still has all the possibilities of moving

If I am peaceful…is not peace,/is getting used to harm.

Memories aren't always about facts. Sometimes they're about feelings.

Man will never understand woman and vice versa. We are oil and water. An equal level can never be maintained, as one will always excel where the other doesn't, and that breeds resentment.

You don't need followers, you need supporters. Followers wait for you to make it happen. Supporters, see to it that you make it happen. - The Affidavit of Niedria Dionne Kenny

Cities collect people, stray and lost and deliberate arrivants.

If my hair was on fire and llamas came to put it out, he'd tell me the shot was great.

Memories can be tricky, especially those from childhood.

...if Clinton's answers come off as well-intended lectures, Obama is offering soaring sermons and generational opportunity. In 1960, the articulate Adlai Stevenson compared his own oratory unfavorably with John F. Kennedy's. "Do you remember," Stevenson said, "that in classical times when Cicero had finished speaking, the people said, 'How well he spoke,' but when Demosthenes had finished speaking, the people said, 'Let us march.' " At this hour, Obama is the Democrats' Demosthenes.

I'm never going to give in. I'm never going to give up, and I will fight back with every breath I have." - Dionne Warner, seven-time cancer survivor and subject of Never Leave Your Wingman

Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.

People here believe in uncontrollable passion, in mad rages, and in the brusque inevitability of death.

A fool will lose tomorrow reaching back for yesterday

Occasionally, we have to find a reason to smile. Most of the time we smile simply because we can.

Heaven is freakin' not ready for me!" - seven-time cancer survivor Dionne Warner in Never Leave Your Wingman

Consensual intercourse of the minds happens when conversation between two like minded individuals, are brought together by mutually exclusive chemistry in conversation that causes mental arousal & orgasmic stimulation which then produces ideas which provoke conscious thoughts.

so don’t tell me how love will rescue me, I was carnivorous about love, I ate love to the ankles, my thighs are gnawed with love still and yet I cannot have loved, since living was all I could do and for that, I was caged in bone spur endlessly

It is not the job of writers to life our spirits. Books simply do what they do. They sometimes confirm the capricious drama of a childhood living room. When you think that you are in the grace of a dance you come upon something hard.

Fashions are not fashions at all but refashioning; language is not communication but reinvention. They are never in place but on display.

At the heart of my argument is the view that religious faith, far from being inevitably on the side of the status quo, should on principle hold this world to higher standards.

The sea sounded like a thousand secrets, all whispered at the same time.

A blank page and time ignite infinite possibilities in a mind unyielding to boundaries.

We do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children.

The Door of No Return - real and metaphoric as some places are, mythic to those of us who are scattered in the Americas today. To have one’s belonging lodged in a metaphor is voluptuous intrigue; to inhabit a trope; to be a kind of fiction. To live in the Black Diaspora I think is to live in a fiction - a creation of empires, and also self-creation. It is to be being living inside and outside herself. It is to apprehend the the sign one makes yet to be unable to escape it except in radiant moments of ordinariness made like art. To be a fiction in search of its most resonant metaphor then is even more intriguing.

It is not the job of writers to lift our spirits. Books simply do what they do. They sometimes confirm the capricious drama of a childhood living room. When you think that you are in the grace of a dance you come upon something hard. �—"A Map to the Door of No Return" - Dionne Brand

If I see someone I see the ghost of them, the air around them, and where they’ve been. If I see a city I see it’s living ghostliness—the stray looks, the dying hands. I see it’s needs and its discomforts locked in apartments.

And on the sidewalks, after they've emerged from the stations, after being sandpapered by the jostling and scraping that a city like this does, all the lives they've hoarded, all the ghosts they've carried, all the inversions they've made for protection, all the scars and marks and records for recognition - the whole heterogeneous baggage falls out with each step on the pavement. There's so much spillage.

The real substance is at the bottom of the sea. That's where the mystery unfolds. The deepest part of your heart is like the deepest part of the ocean, and when someone is brave enough to go there, it's worth sharing the treasures buried deeply within.

Let's be honest about journalists: We find a lot of ways of being wrong.

So, what if everything in life is an illusion? Well, choose your illusion; Don't let it choose you.

She could assassinate streets with her eyes

And truly, when I think about it, no one owes me a proper and truthful account of their life. And I don't owe anyone veracity when it comes to mine.

You're actually each other's wingman. You never leave your partner vulnerable." - Graham Warner, husband of fun-loving seven-time cancer survivor Dionne Warner

A writer always holds in one hand, the pin (pen) to the bomb she’s about to throw in her other hand (material) - The Affidavit of Niedria Dionne Kenny

When you don’t want something or someone anymore, the truth is, you don’t give a damn about who has it. And that’s the truth. - TheAffidavitOfNiedriaDionneKenny

..would I have had a different life failing this embrace with broken things, iridescent veins, ecstatic bullets, small cracks in the brain, would I know these particular facts, how a phrase scars a cheek, how water dries love out, this, a thought as casual as any second eviscerates a breath.

I was someone who lived in anxiety. I felt anxiety was part of being conscious in the world; it was a prerequisite of a moral and ethical life. I don't mean the anxieties of Capital, I mean the anxieties of an unfinished world, the unfinished projects of the imagination, as Wilson Harris would put it.

There were Italian neighbourhood and Vietnamese neighbourhoods in this city; there are Chinese ones and Ukrainian ones and Pakistani ones and Korean ones and African ones. Name a region on the planet and there's someone from there, here. All of them sit on Ojibway land, but hardly any of them know it or care because that genealogy is wilfully untraceable except in the name of the city itself. They'd only have to look, though, but it could be that what they know hurts them already, and what if they found out something even more damaging? These are people who are used to the earth beneath them shifting, and they all want it to stop-and if that means they must pretend to know nothing, well, that's the sacrifice they make.

One viewer - a Mr. Dionne from California... fired off an angry, rambling letter, complaining haughtily that "the most disciplined attention I could give [The Cube] was a belch from the grave of Marcus Aurelius, occasioned, I might add, by the dead weight of its own dust caving in on itself." Two weeks later came Jim's one-sentence response: Dear Mr. Dionne: What the fuck are you talking about? Yours truly, JIM HENSON

I name all my queen bees after female divas: Adele, Beyoncé, Lady Gaga, Whitney, and Mariah. Taylor, Britney, Miley, Aretha, and Ariana are in the apple orchard; on other contracts I have Sia, Dionne, Cher, and Katy.

The problem I have had with people, is that everyone wants to read and judge by the cover. If you’re interested in this book, you’re going to have to open it and read it, to know the story. - Tje Affidavit of Niedria Dionne Kenny

Religious people should always be wary of the ways in which political power is wielded and skeptical of how economic privileges are distributed. They should also be mindful of how their own traditions have been used for narrow political purposes, and how some religious figures have manipulated the faith to aggrandize their own power. The doctrine of original sin and the idea of a fallen side of human nature apply to people who are religious no less than those who are not.

We'd appraise each other, in the provisional way that lovers do, by attaching great depth and significance to the provisional. How, after all, do you "know" anyone? You take in certain physical and emotional characteristics that you've aestheticized, ignoring the facts. You listen to what a lover has to say, taking in the erotic music of their sound, their timbre, while dismissing the lyrics.

He believed in nothing. Which is why his departures and his pursuit of the most intense feelings and acts were so radical, so deep and honest. The truth of life was perfectly clear to him. Nothing was made, every new morning was clear. His only challenge was inward. He had not been disillusioned or had some bad experience that he could put it all down to. He had simply seen the world and that was that. And he understood how slippery every moment was and he liked the thrill of it. Slipping from the knowable to the unknown, walking from one street to the next, being different all the time. In one afternoon he could slip from one personality to another. Why not?

The ideas in each—from profit-sharing with employees to new approaches to job training, from reform of the financial system to promote long-term time horizons on investment to more progressive taxes and large-scale infrastructure investment—would help create a more just economy.

When they were done, Dionne took her panties in one hand and her new Bible in the other and let the breeze when it came touch her where Trevor had before. She felt wiser somehow, an looking at the church lit up above, thought that maybe this kin of pleasure could be her religion.

I am not nostalgic for a country which doesn’t yet exist on a map.” [...] I am not nostalgic. Belonging does not interest me. I had once thought that it did. Until I examined the underpinnings. One is mislead when on looks at the sails and majesty of tall ships instead of their cargo.

In a book called Why Americans Hate Politics, E. J. Dionne says, “Americans hate politics as it is now practiced because we have lost all sense of the public good.”4 Without the conviction that there exists an objective good, public debate disintegrates into a cacophony of warring voices.

It's like this with this city -- you can stand on a simple corner and get taken away in all directions. Depending on the weather, it can be easy or hard. If it's pleasant, and the pleasant is so relative, then the other languages making their way to your ears, plus the language of the air itself, which can be cold and humid or wet and hot, this all sums up into a kind of new vocabulary. No matter who you are, no matter how certain you are of it, you can't help but feel the thrill of being someone else.

You come to this, here's the marrow of it, not moving, not standing, it's too much to hold up, what I really want to say is, I don't want no fucking country, here or there and all the way back, I don't like it, none of it, easy as that. I'm giving up on land to light on, and why not, I can't perfect my own shadow, my violent sorrow, my individual wrists

geocaching—or

You're just a character in my book, but I did not give you any lines.

Jed, from Jedediah. The name given to Solomon by the prophet Nathan. He that is beloved of the Lord.

God is not a puppeteer of men. Nor does He interfere. He is there to give courage, comfort, hope and the strength to forgive.

we can all be sure of one thing—we will face challenges together, some known, others yet to become clear, and God will give us the strength to find our way through.

Take happiness where you find it, Lily. You’ll never get this day back again,

People still tell me to do stuff all the time, but now I get to tell stories any way I want.

If I walk into the room and you see something amazing, trust your eyes.

My enemies do not live in my book. They all meet their fate in the most gruesome way.

dance floors would bleed from the knife of her dress

Wouldn’t it be nice if people could keep their rain on their own parade?

And truly, when I think about it, no one owes me a proper and truthful account of their life. And I don't owe anyone veracity when t comes to mine.

Only when the last tree has died and the last river has been poisoned and the last fish has been caught will the white man realize he cannot eat money

People are real good at pointing out the high road, until it's time for them to take it themselves; under the same circumstances they told you to take it.

You can’t forge a calligraphy of love no matter how great your penmanship

For some, to find beauty is to search through ruins.

Our culture treats weight loss as if it's about aesthetics or a vain quest to assimilate, but we rarely consider that it is sometimes a consequence of traumatic experience.

I have love. I care for people. I have a heart. I have emotions. I have compassion. It’s those who lack all of the above, who could never know what it’s like to have any of them in return.

Winston Churchill lived here for many years. Have you heard of him?” “Wasn’t he some fat guy who owned a sweet shop?” Her eyes widened in definite horror. I laughed. “Just joking. I’m not an idiot. He was your prime minister during the Second World War. He was the one who brought in the eight-hour working day and minimum wage, and he said cool things like ‘The price of greatness is responsibility.

I run each morning, two, three, sometimes four kilometers. Part of March, all of April, all of May. I can’t run five. I am eating up kilometers on my way to where it is always twilight. I am running out of this world.

Dali’s Reclining Woman Wearing a Chemise looks like a dead slaughtered doll, and I can see preying eagles, broken arrows, and jazz musicians in Jackson Pollock, and because I believe that Man Ray and Duchamp were lovers.

I knew that Amy couldn’t have died from a drug overdose, as she had been drug-free since 2008. But although she had been so brave and had fought so hard in her recovery from alcoholism, I knew she must have lapsed once again. I thought that Amy hadn’t had a drink for three weeks. But she had actually started drinking at Dionne’s Roundhouse gig the previous Wednesday. I didn’t know that at the time. The following morning Janis, Jane, Richard Collins (Janis’s fiancé), Raye, Reg and I went to St Pancras mortuary to officially identify Amy. Alex couldn’t bring himself to go, which I fully understood. When we arrived there were loads of paps outside the court, but they were all very respectful. We were shown into a room and saw Amy behind a window. She looked very, very peaceful, as if she was just asleep, which in a way made it a lot harder. She looked lovely. There was a slight red blotchiness to her skin, which was why, at the time, I thought she might have had a seizure: she looked as she had done when she had had seizures in the past. Eventually the others left Janis and me to say goodbye to Amy by ourselves. We were with her for about fifteen minutes. We put our hands on the glass partition and spoke to her. We told her that Mummy and Daddy were with her and that we would always love her. I can’t express what it was like. It was the worst feeling in the world.

Some people celebrate birthdays and expect to be told, Happy Birthday to mark another year of getting older while others celebrate achievements and receive congratulations to mark another milestone. We are different, but happy birthday to you.

We met at the centermost of a metaphor. Right at the end of his dictum...face to face. ...You have lovely pearls, he said. I could look into them all night- could I interest you in allowing me to extol your winsomeness? Fair Lady- Love, Lust & Regrets

On Domestic Violence: So allow me to pass a few judgements on those whom are always passing judgement: you’re probably sitting at home right now in an abusive relationship that you’re downplaying and calling “simple fights” not that bad or something that doesn’t bother you. I just hope that when you figure it out one day and decide to tell your story, that the people you’ve called dumb and stupid for “staying as long as they did” and “not speaking up sooner” are still willing to listen to your dumb and stupid ass

spending more time with our children, and reading to them, and teaching them that while they may face challenges and discrimination in their own lives, they must never succumb to despair or cynicism; they must always believe that they can write their own destiny.

You have to go through life with more than just passion for change; you need a strategy. I’ll repeat that. I want you to have passion, but you have to have a strategy. Not just awareness, but action. Not just hashtags, but votes. You see, change requires more than righteous anger.

I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I said, focusing on the dashboard in front of me to prevent the tears that filled my eyes from falling. “Please don’t ask me again.” Then I got out of the car. I closed the door and didn’t look back, fighting the newly created anxiety in my belly.

Angie was a border crosser, a wetback, a worker in the immigrant sweatshop they call this city. On days like this I understand her like a woman instead of a child. Everybody thought she was a whore. She wasn’t. She tried to step across the border of who she was and who she might be. They wouldn’t let her. She didn’t believe it herself so she stepped across into a whole other country.

un soir de guerre et ceux qui regardent parmi nous bouche bée voient la beauté devenir effroyable coucher de soleil, souffle de nuages gris aux stries rouges nous observons une maison qui brûle tout l'après-midi, toute la nuit toutes les nuits nous regardons un autre feu qui brûle Mardi Butler house Mercredi radio grenade libre Jeudi poste de police [...] à chaque bruit nouveau de la guerre dans la froide lumière de cinq heures du matin il manque quelque chose quelques parties du corps quelques lieux de ce monde une île, un endroit auquel penser Je marche sur un rocher d'un rivage de la Barbade cherchant où était grenade à présent le vol d un bombardier américain laisse une trace de viol dans la chambre de chaque réveil que devons nous faire aujourd'hui prêt à combattre couchés dans le couloir à les attendre la peur nous tient éveillés et nous fait rêver de sommeil

earnestly. Drab to Desirable? What am I? A chuffing living room? Sonja reaches from underneath the desk and hands me a starchy white gown. It looks like a hospital nightie, a fact that doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence. I’m not really an expert on beauty salons, having only been to one three times in my life, but I’m pretty sure there is supposed to be champagne. And why is there no soothing music playing in the background? Where’s the friendly lady who will chat to me about her children while doing my nails in pretty pearly pink? ‘I don’t know if I can afford all this,’ I whisper to Dionne, as Sonja types my details into an expensive-looking computer. ‘Oh, no worries. Bull knows someone. It’s on the house.’ ‘Oh.’ A gangster salon! ‘We are ready!’ Sonja says brightly, clapping her hands. ‘Natalie, if you could leave your belongings right here, I vill put them in the safe.’ I hand over my coat and handbag. ‘Now, if

It is a disposition that the historian Clinton Rossiter described simply but insightfully, writing when the right was at its turning point in the 1950s and 1960s. Conservatives, he said, have the obligation to “steer a prudent course between too much progress, which throws us into turmoil, and too little, which is an impossible state for Americans to endure.” Rossiter viewed conservatism’s “highest mission” as fostering “the spirit of unity among . . . all classes and callings” in the name of “preserving a successful way of life.

I was dying inside because I couldn't have the one I wanted and crying because he didn't want me and because he wasn't what I needed. But I was living inside because I had the one I needed and smiling because I was what he wanted and because I was what he needed. Once you realize that having what you need, is in what wants and needs you, and is where the real love is found, though embedded deeply in the mind body and soul of your other half ....like hidden jewels...precious stones, untrodden roads, hidden pathways, tranquil parks and undiscovered wonders of the world; by which you create bonds through life experiences, whereby the reward is happiness; you realize that you behold the beauty of what love really is. You then know that you have something preeminent in the palm of your hand. And that revelation, that ephiphamy, is a sign of growth, in that you are ordained to a horizontal equivalent, by virtue of bountifully maturing enough into a quintessential frame of mind, where you have the mental capacity and obligatory wherewithal to handle the authority of love. You've truly arrived to the most profound place, because you now know that you do have what you want- because all we want is to love and to be love. The substance is never found on the surface. Not the good substance. The only substance that sits in such a shallow place is more than likely something toxic. The real substance is at the bottom of the sea. That's where the mystery unfolds. The deepest part of your heart is like the deepest part of the ocean, and when someone is brave enough to go there, it's worth sharing the treasures buried deeply within.

I want to say something else about desire. I really do not know what it is. I experience something which, sometimes, if I pull it apart, I cannot make reason of. The word seems to me to fall apart under the pull and drag of its commodified shapes, under the weight of our artifice and our conceit. It is sometimes impossible to tell what is real from what is manufactured. We live in a world filled with commodified images of desire. Desire clings to widgets, chairs, fridges, cars, perfumes, shoes, jackets, golf clubs, basketballs, telephones, water, soap powder, houses, neighbourhoods. Even god. It clings to an endless list of objects. It clings to the face of television sets and movie screens. It is glaciered in assigned objects, it is petrified in repetitive cliched gestures. Their repetition is tedious, the look and sound of them tedious. We become the repetition despite our best efforts. We become numb. And though against the impressive strength of this I can't hope to say all that desire might be, I wanted to talk about it not as it is sold to us but as one collects it, piece by piece, proceeding through a life. I wanted to say that life, if we are lucky, is a collection of aesthetic experiences as it is a collection of pratical experiences, which may be one and the same sometimes, and which if we are lucky we make a sense of. Making sense may be what desire is. Or, putting the senses back together.

One gleeful headline drives me to the floor, kneeling, and all paint turns to gazette paper and all memory collides into photographs we could not say happened, that is us, that’s what we did. When you lose you become ancient but this time no one will rake over these bodies gently collecting their valuables, their pots, their hearts and intestines, their papers and what they could bury. This civilisation will be dug up to burn all its manifestos. No tender archaeologist will mend our furious writings concluding, “They wanted sweat to taste sweet, that is all, some of them played music for nothing, some of them wrote poems to tractors, rough hands, and rough roads, some sang for no reason at all to judge by their condition.

Can I get a regular skim cap?” I didn’t get coffee here every day—because I had my coffee machine, or used to have—how depressing—but I visited regularly enough that they knew me. Sometimes I wanted something frothy with chocolate on the top, and I was too lazy to do that at home. Frances was in her mid-thirties, had gorgeous straight blonde hair, which was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and an infectious smile. “Hey, chicky. Coming right up. A little birdie told me it was your birthday yesterday. Happy birthday!” She banged used coffee grounds out of the thingamajig and filled it with new ones. “Aw, thanks. Did you run into the girls last night?” The girls being my besties, Sophie and Michelle. “Yep. How come you weren’t there? They told me you piked.” She screwed the thingamajig into the machine and pressed the button. And wouldn’t you know, it worked. I wish my machine still worked. “Big day photographing a wedding. One drink and I would have fallen asleep.” I laughed—it wasn’t too far from the truth. So what if I left out the bit where I had a pity party because my brother hadn’t called. I’d try calling him later. Knowing him, he had a good

Tread lightly." Vulnerability softened Bron's voice, as if he'd told her he loved her.

Reading is a journey. Enjoy the destination.

Carla might recognize herself in the lean girls against the bar, the girls in slender-cut suits with silver rings on each finger and thumb who looked so compact and secretive, so much as if all their essences were perfectly locked and kept, and only if you managed to please them could you unlock their fingers and pry them out. They smelled of a different perfume, they never quite met your eyes except in a swift and thorough appraisal whose conclusion you became aware of immediately when their eyes averted without the longed-for approving smile. You longed to go with them to secret apartments in the suburbs or condos on the lakeshore and there have their fingers brush down your back and have their maroon mouths kiss your thighs.

About her family she had taken a superior view. She considered them somewhat childlike since her power over them in the form of language had given her the privilege of viewing them in this way. And her distance from them, as the distance of all translators from their subjects, allowed her to see that so much of the raison d'etre of their lives was taken up negotiating their way around the small objects of foreignness laced in their way. Either they could not see the larger space of commonality or it was denied them.

There are Italian neighbourhoods and Vietnamese neighbourhoods in this city; there are Chinese ones and Ukrainian ones and Pakistani ones and Korean ones and African ones. Name a region on the planet and there’s someone from there, here. All of them sit on Ojibway land, but hardly any of them know it or care because that genealogy is wilfully untraceable except in the name of the city itself. They’d only have to look, though, but it could be that what they know hurts them already, and what if they found out something even more damaging? These are people who are used to the earth beneath them shifting, and they all want it to stop—and if that means they must pretend to know nothing, well, that’s the sacrifice they make.

President Calvin Coolidge captured the spirit of the decade when he declared: “After all, the chief business of the American people is business.” Coolidge’s defenders note that in the same speech, the president also insisted: “The chief ideal of the American people is idealism. I cannot repeat too often that America is a nation of idealists. That is the only motive to which they ever give any strong and lasting reaction.” Coolidge’s idealism, however, seemed inspired primarily by an almost mystical (and perhaps idolatrous) devotion to the American business system. “The man who builds a factory builds a temple,” Coolidge wrote. “The man who works there worships there.” Yet the “normalcy” of the Harding-Coolidge years

No argument in the world is ever resolved. Resolving would suggest some liquid in which arguments could be immersed, perhaps love. But it must be love enough.

Still, Dionne asked Obama to respond to critics who say he tells young black Americans to examine how their own actions might have contributed to their disadvantaged status, in ways he wouldn't to white youth. The president said he made "no apologies" for it. "And the reason is, is because I am a black man who grew up without a father and I know the cost that I paid for that," he said. "And I also know that I have the capacity to break that cycle, and as a consequence, I think my daughters are better off.

If there was history being made in the city, if history was the high-level war rich people waged for their own turf in the city—those wars about waterfront developments and opera houses and real-estate deals and privatization contracts—then the poor waged wars for control of their small alleyways and walkways, their streets and the trade in unofficial goods. Their currency was not stocks, wealth and influence peddling, but tough reputations and threats of physical damage; their gains weren’t stock options and expensive homes but momentary physical control and perennially contested fearsomeness. This war was a more volatile war, perhaps. There was no cushion of security to land on if you lost a skirmish.

But what the fuck did she see in Reiner? That’s what he wanted to know. Well, given the things he’d been thinking about before Jackie came into the café, perhaps it was obvious what she saw in Reiner. Reiner was safe. Reiner was white. Musician, bullshitter, and Reiner did not, could not possibly see the city as a prison. More, Reiner must see it as his place—look at how he took possession of it, took possession of Jackie’s back, guiding her across the street with one hand, warding off traffic with the other, in which he balanced his coffee. Look at his face, it spoke of someone in control and certainly not threatened. Someone comfortable, easy.

And she knew that this was the thing that would harm Dionne in the end, not her foolishness but the foolhardy way in which she clung to her own terrible ideas. She knew that this was Avril's undoing, not that she'd made the wrong choices, but that she'd been so unwilling to let anyone in to see the lie of her marriage, this masking was worse than the original mistake. Sixty-three years on this earth has taught Hyacinth that it wasn't so much the mistakes that people made but how flexible they were in the aftermath that made all the difference in how their lives turned out. It was the women who held too tightly to the dream of their husband's fidelity who unraveled, the parents who clasped their children too close who lost them, the me who grieved too deeply the lives they'd wanted and would never have who saw their sadness consume them. Hyacinth worried about Dionne because of her hard way of being in the world, the way she could only see the world through the lens of her own flawed feelings.