Fingers In The Sparkle Jar Quotes

It was a pity he couldn't do an O level in beetle smell. Or rat identification, or birdsong.

Without the restless insects the place seemed stunned, stupefied, shocked by the ballet of gossamer violence, the wonder of plain and simple things drawn together to conjure such beauty, transforming that bubble of urban air into a theatre where an astonishing performance was fleetingly played to an awed audience of one, the memory of which would sparkle for a lifetime. And he knew it then, in that moment of dead happiness, what a gift, what a thing he had seen, what a treasure he held.

The day we were all allowed to bring our pets into the classroom was going to be special. It was a nice sunny morning and Batty my black mouse had been spruced up for the occasion. He was in his new second-hand plastic cage, it was mustard coloured, had the mandatory wheel and sleeping chamber but had previously been a torture chamber for my cousin's late hamster. Despite my best efforts to revitalise it the wire remained rusty in places but at least it was more secure than the wooden enclosure my father had made... and Batty had instantly, and repeatedly, chewed his way out of. Sadly the species list for the class was a meagre four: rabbit, hamster, guinea pig and... one domesticated house mouse, Batty. They all ignored him, they cooed over the 'bunnies' and those chubby-fat tailless things whose eyes bulged when you squeezed them a bit, and queued to offer carrot and cabbage to those cow-licked multicoloured freaks with scratchy claws, but not one of the kids wanted to see, let alone hold, my mouse. By mid-afternoon the teacher finally caught sight of the lonely boy whispering into his mouse cage in the corner and gingerly agreed to let the rodent walk onto her hand in front of the class. Batty promptly pissed and then pooed three perfect wet little pellets, the classroom erupted with a huge collective 'urrgh' and then a frenzy of giggling, she practically threw him back in his cage and then made a big deal about washing her hands. With soap. Then we were all meant to wash our hands, with soap, but I didn't and no one noticed.

Shopping at the Dandelion Co-op made me feel European. Very Audrey Hepburn as Sabrina in Paris (that movie played a few weeks ago in the park). River picked out goat cheese to spread on crispy-crusted French bread for the picnic, and olives, and a jar of roasted red peppers, and a bar of seventy percent dark chocolate, and a bottle of sparkling water. He bought some things for himself too: organic whole-fat milk, another crunchy baguette, glossy espresso beans (which were roasted by Gianni's family and sold all over town), bananas, Parmigiano-Reggiano, fat brown eggs, extra-virgin olive oil, and some bulk spices. I watched River as he shopped. Closely. I watched him breathe in deep the gorgeous roasted smell of the espresso beans before he ground them. I watched him open the egg carton and stroke the brown shells before closing it again. I watched him slip his slim fingers into the barrel of bright purple-and-white cranberry beans, unable to resist the urge, just like me. I always had to put my hands in the pretty, speckled beans. Always.

Back then I thought they were too cowardly to think deeply about themselves and their world...but now I know they had no more choice than I did, we’re just wired differently, different parts of our brain are a bit more developed than the others

The towering cloud unfurled its edge, shoved the sun’s face away and spewed a vile violet light that curdled all colour. The grass greyed, all the dandelions dimmed and bleached, the scarlet lining of his coat rotted to mildew, his hands grew pallid, washed old and deathly, and he felt the cold steal up his legs and swallow him.

As he listened his knew those beautiful notes would hit the classroom windows and fall unheard on the paving below, to be trodden into crisp packets and the sticky stuff from Wagon Wheels, the chocolate chipped from Curly Wurlys, and get blown into the concrete corner drain with that gutted tennis ball that lived there.

Birdsong... he’d tease apart its subtleties and nuances

I’d rather give more to and get more back from one or two people...in regard to a single subject

Success is not something that can ever be reached because things can always be better

An angry wren moused through a thatch of sedges in quick nips and whirred off to the split stump of a giant willow where it twitched for a moment, round and brown, hungry, likely doomed.

A silky mist was rising from the marbled surface of the stream, stirred by the sun, which was dropping sequins into all its dimples and gilding the surface with lemon.

Immediately nothing of this instant is tangible, there’s so little to recall that he imagines that he imagined it. It’s more of a feeling than anything real- just a fleeting sense that some pulse of life has singed the air. He felt for some fraction of a second a bird fly through him and in that moment he learns more of that bird than he’ll ever learn in a lifetime of loving it.