Wisteria Quotes

In pale moonlight / the wisteria's scent / comes from far away.

She offered her mouth to him, as if enchanted. A Persian princess, a little Indian, a fox, a morning glory, a lovely wisteria--it always pleased them when you told them they looked like something, like something else.

A summer rain had left the night clean and sparkling with drops of water. I leaned against the end pillar of the gallery, my head touching the soft tendrils of a jasmine which grew there in a constant battle with a wisteria, and I thought of what lay before me throughout the world and throughout time, and resolved to go about it delicately and reverently, learning that from each thing which would take me best to another.

You are a scoundrel," she whispered furiously. "Yes," he agreed. "I'm thinking of starting a Society of Gentlemen Scoundrels." "You're millennia too late. It already exists and is called the patriarchy.

If like the leaf of the wisteria through which the sun darts his rays transparently you give your heart to me, I will no longer distrust you

Doubtless Princess Juliana intended for me to overhear her comment on seeing Theodora in wedding regalia. “She’s like wisteria: beautiful in a vulgarly decorative way, cloyingly scented and an unstoppable climber.” Her eyes met mine and she made a motion as if scribbling in the air, daring me to write down her words.

Shard by shard we are released from the tyranny of so-called time. A curtain of purple wisteria partially conceals the entrance to a familiar garden... In a wink, a lifetime, we pass through the infinite movements of a silent overture.

We have only three laws in our Society, Cecilia. No killing civilians. Pour the tea before the milk. And no stealing each other’s houses.

I had stopped my chair at that exact place, coming out, because right there the spice of wisteria that hung around the house was invaded by the freshness of apple blossoms in a blend that lifted the top of my head. As between those who notice such things and those who don't, I prefer those who do.

We are exactly that, Signor. Corsairs, robbers, pirates. I, however, am also a bibliophile, and you are impeding my visit to the library. So either assassinate me now and get it over with, or kindly step aside.

It is violence that best overcomes hate, vengeance that most certainly heals injury, and a good cup of tea that soothes the most anguished soul”; thus ran the motto of the Wisteria Society of Lady Scoundrels.

There is much to be said for cherry blossoms, but they seem so flighty. They are so quick to run off and leave you. And then just when your regrets are the strongest the wisteria comes into bloom, and it blooms on into the summer. There is nothing quite like it. Even the color is somehow companionable and inviting.

that’s enough history for today. Come and learn how to kill someone with a teaspoon.

Burn as brightly as the sun if you wish, Aris, but I will not look away.

But Robin: their dear little Robs. More than ten years later, his death remained an agony; there was no glossing any detail; its horror was not subject to repair or permutation by any of the narrative devices that the Cleves knew. And—since this willful amnesia had kept Robin's death from being translated into that sweet old family vernacular which smoothed even the bitterest mysteries into comfortable, comprehensible form—the memory of that day's events had a chaotic, fragmented quality, bright mirrorshards of nightmare which flared at the smell of wisteria, the creaking of a clothes-line, a certain stormy cast of spring light.

Nothing is easier than to admit the truth of the universal struggle to find a good parking space.

I needed a book in case of emergencies." "You mean like being attacked by foul-mouthed highwaymen?" "No, I mean those moments when nothing important is happening, such as during travel. After supper. Before sleeping. Or whilst one's opponent reloads their gun.

Wisteria and red-buds had followed, and then in mid-March the azaleas burst forth in gigantic pillows of white, red, and vermilion. White dogwood blossoms floated like clouds of confectioner’s sugar above the azaleas. The scent of honeysuckle,

One day, I promise that I will find you beneath the bend of a wisteria tree. Wait for me just a little longer.” He would wait until every last star in the sky had faded from existence. He would have told her that, too,

So are you turning out like them? Do you still write and draw?" "yeah, but I don't do anything personnal or profound. My parents take life way to seriousely. I lke to make people laugh. I had a regular cartoon feature in the school news paper and created some for the year book. Social satire stuff. I've done a couple of political cartoons for wisteria's paper and just got one accepted in Easton's, which has a much bigger circulation. Impressed?

She took the spyglass from a nearby shelf and held it to her eye. The world was a vast black emptiness, echoing like the mordant spaces between soul-wrought words... Ned leaned across and removed the lens cap, and poetry became science again.

After vindictive winter, apple blossoms seem all the more heaven-sent. Among flashing forsythia and budding rose, dogwood and daffodil, The allure of magnolia, azalea and wisteria to lovers’ dreams are lent. Resolve is recompense as seedtime’s blush dispenses with the chill, How sweet-scented is New England now as winter tempests are through. My darling girl, the divinest bloom in cherry blossom time just happens to be you.

My parents often remind my brothers and me that they won’t have any money for us to inherit, but I think they’ve already passed on to us the wealth of their memories, allowing us to grasp the beauty of a flowering wisteria, the delicacy of a word, the power of wonder. Even more, they’ve given us feet for walking to our dreams, to infinity. Which may be enough baggage to continue our journey on our own. Otherwise, we would pointlessly clutter our path with possessions to transport, to insure, to take care of.

I’m not sure what astonishes me most,” Cecilia replied, “that we didn’t think of it, or that a man on his own actually asked for directions.

Wisteria is my favorite flowering vine. Do you know why?' I shook my head. 'No, ma'am.' 'Because it's strong -- just like me.

(After all, the Wisteria Ladies’ Junior Division motto was: “Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and hopefully the other person dies.”)

Two roads diverged in a yellow-wallpapered room, and we pirates took the better one,

Charming man, shame she would have to assassinate him one day soon.

He wanted to linger. It was sweet to linger. To stand under fading wisteria, watching their mingling shadows, and bicker about unimportant things. There was something terribly precious about it. Perhaps because it was unnecessary. It was for the pleasure of it. It was Just Because.

What we need is female suffrage," Cecilia opined as she laid lemon slices, cut into the shape of flowers, atop the tea. "I'm not so sure of about that," Lady Armitage argued. "We suffer enough as it is.

Speak one more word to my wife,” Aris growled, “and I will tear your tongue from your throat.

I want to watch wisteria grow right over my bare feet 'cause I haven't moved in years.

A lady stays tranquil and poised under all circumstances. Instead of panicking, she squares her jaw, protects her heart, and ensures that she has enough ammunition to gun down everyone in her path.

So Recklessly Exposed December and January, gone. Tulips coming up. It's time to watch how trees stagger in the wind and roses never rest. Wisteria and Jasmine twist on themselves. Violet kneels to Hyacinth, who bows. Narcissus winks, wondering what will the lightheaded Willow say of such slow dancing by Cypress. Painters come outdoors with brushes. I love their hands. The birds sing suddenly and all at once. The soul says Ya Hu, quietly. A dove calls, Where, ku? Soul, you will find it. Now the roses show their breasts. No one hides when the Friend arrives. The Rose speaks openly to the Nightingale. Notice how the Green Lily has several tongues but still keeps her secret. Now the Nightingale sings this love that is so recklessly exposed, like you.

Food of Love Eating is touch carried to the bitter end. -Samuel Butler II I'm going to murder you with love; I'm going to suffocate you with embraces; I'm going to hug you, bone by bone, Till you're dead all over. Then I will dine on your delectable marrow. You will become my personal Sahara; I'll sun myself in you, then with one swallow Drain you remaining brackish well. With my female blade I'll carve my name In your most aspiring palm Before I chop it down. Then I'll inhale your last oasis whole. But in the total desert you become You'll see me stretch, horizon to horizon, Opulent mirage! Wisteria balconies dripping cyclamen. Vistas ablaze with crystal, laced in gold. So you will summon each dry grain of sand And move towards me in undulating dunes Till you arrive at sudden ultramarine: A Mediterranean to stroke your dusty shores; Obstinate verdue, creeping inland, fast renudes Your barrens; succulents spring up everywhere, Surprising life! And I will be that green. When you are fed and watered, flourishing With shoots entwining trellis, dome and spire, Till you are resurrected field in bloom, I will devour you, my natural food, My host, my final supper on the earth, And you'll begin to die again.

He had kissed her twice now. Outrageous! Indefensible! Would he kiss her in the sunlight next time? My goodness, she hoped not! Would he hold her close, his hand stroking her back as if she was something to be handled with care, cherished? Heaven forbid!

Italian,” Cecilia said, disappointment withering each syllable. “You need to be a bit older before you can attract a proper assassin, my dear,” Miss Darlington advised from the interior.

The estate grounds, like the surrounding farmland, were beautifully maintained, with deep mature hedges and old stone walls covered with climbing roses and soft, fluttery bursts pf purple wisteria. Jasmine and honeysuckle perfumed the air where the carriages came to a slow halt in front of the portico.

And–since this willful amnesia had kept Robin's death from being translated into that sweet old family vernacular which smoothed even the bitterest mysteries into comfortable, comprehensible form–the memory of that day's events had a chaotic, fragmented quality, bright mirror-shards of nightmare which flared at the smell of wisteria, the creaking of a clothes-line, a certain stormy cast of spring light.

There is a much-loved region in the American fantasy where pale white women float eternally under black magnolia trees, and white men with soft hands brush wisps of wisteria from the creamy shoulders of their lady loves. Harmonious black music drifts like perfume through this precious air, and nothing of a threatening nature intrudes. The South I returned to, however, was flesh-real and swollen-belly poor.

I'm afraid I've done nothing at all to advance the plot." "You chose to come away with me," Ned reminded her. "So this is merely romance," she frowned disapprovingly. "I was hoping for an epic adventure, or a gothic mystery at the very least." Ned laughed. "Darling, don't worry, the story has just begun.

I’m thinking of starting a Society of Gentlemen Scoundrels.” “You’re millennia too late. It already exists and is called the patriarchy.

Granted, she did fly that bookshop into the Serpentine when they told her they didn’t stock any Dickens novels, but that only shows a praiseworthy enthusiasm for literature.

Young foliage sweet bronze. Most strongly scented of all wisterias. Deep spring: overcome by my own perfume.

Louis found me in the rear parlor, the one more distant from the noises of the tourists in the Rue Royale, and with its windows open to the courtyard below. I was in fact looking out the window, looking for the cat again, though I didn't tell myself so, and observing how our bougainvillea had all but covered the high walls that enclosed us and kept us safe from the rest of the world. The wisteria was also fierce in its growth, even reaching out from the brick walls to the railing of the rear balcony and finding its way up to the roof. I could never quite take for granted the lush flowers of New Orleans. Indeed, they filled me with happiness whenever I stopped to really look at them and surrender to their fragrance, as though I still had the right to do so, as though I still were part of nature, as though I were still a mortal man.

The roof of the front porch of the house is covered, for some reason, with moss, and also, on one side, with wisteria, which gives the house a sort of raffish Veronica Lake look, a disheveled charm.

It’s said that the Wisteria Vine is a symbol of immortality. Blythe Hawthorne had often admired the flower – as deadly as it was beautiful, and resilient enough to thrive for centuries even if left forgotten.

If you look closely enough at any yard of fabric, you'll find a loose thread. Examine any human heart and you'll discover imperfections.

Half of what I’m wearing is unmentionable. Suffice it to say, if you were dressed as a woman, you would understand the impossibility of going to bed in your clothes.

A wise man—Neil Gaiman—says, “Google can bring you back 100,000 answers. A librarian can bring you back the right one.

Don't ever trust a man who flies a ridiculously large building. He's obviously compensating.

Ghosts aren't real," Olivia Etterly had assured her with the authority of a woman who had killed enough people to know.

When she had her own house, she would fill every room with books.

A real assassin would hire a sensible tailor. And a barber. And would not attempt to murder someone five minutes before luncheon.

Pleasance did not dare to even think about it. Thoughts were not safe things. The mind was no sanctuary.

Many times I have made a plea to save wildflowers along the fence rows. The sumac, the wild roses, the wisteria, the sunflowers, the gayfeathers stay in the fence rows and can be a nesting spot for quail, rabbits, birds,and other small animals.

Wisteria hangs over the eaves like clumps of ghostly grapes. Euphorbia's pale blooms billow like sea froth. Blood grass twists upward, knifing the air, while underground its roots go berserk, goosing everything in their path. A magnolia, impatient with vulvic flesh, erupts in front of the living room window. The recovering terrorist--holding a watering can filled with equal parts fish fertilizer and water, paisley gloves right up over her freckled forearms, a straw hat with its big brim shading her eyes, old tennis shoes speckled with dew--moves through her front garden. Her face, she tells herself, like a Zen koan. The look of one lip smiling.

No one would help steal the houses of their fellow Society members,” Cecilia insisted. He gave her an amused frown. “Why not? Half of you are trying to assassinate the other half.” “That’s different.

Streets were quieter then. Dogs had the run of the town and children played outdoors. The side streets were for Simon Says and Green Light and Giant Step and other games. We set up our own carnivals. We told fortunes and sold coin purses that we made. But the buses on Wisteria Drive meant no one played outside my house. Even the dogs were wary except for one who only had three legs and still chased cars.

Two dozen armed soldiers stood at the threshold. "Good morning," said the man in front. "Could we interest you in an unconditional surrender?" "By all means," Cecelia replied. "I do not know who you are, but I am most happy to accept your surrender.

There's no Monday chore in this world that can't wait until Tuesday.

But that’s enough history for today. Come and learn how to kill someone with a teaspoon.

Even reading Wuthering Heights had proven a trial—she’d kept wanting to edit it.

a book, a cup of tea, and no company; that was Cecilia’s idea of heaven.

Marry me," Ned whispered to Cecilia. "Over Freddy's dead body," she muttered in reply. "This afternoon then," Ned said. "The poor chap is about to expire from hysterics.

Not every genius will be appreciated and too many amateurs will get the attention that others deserve -Aris

What would you do with your education?” “Improve whatever part of world I could touch upon.

What can I say? If society wanted me to keep track of my illicit lovers, they should have educated me better.

He was, everyone else said, a pretentious idiot. A pretentious idiot with a whole lot of guns and the willingness to use them.

My dear,” she whispered. “Some advice from a long-married woman: every time he speaks, close your eyes and think of England.

one does not want to encourage the younger generation too much, lest they lose sight of their proper place: under one’s thumb.

Do not make yourself small. Do not change yourself to suit him. Teach him how to treat you, and remember that you deserve everything this life has to offer.

Men these days. Albert was the same. "Don't ride in an open carriage for fear of assassins." "Don't have parties." "Don't hit me with the furniture." They need to develop more spine.

The path has a cottage garden on both sides; clumps of old-fashioned flowers ran all over each other: lamb's ear, mint, & rhubarb, roses, forget-me-nots, bleeding hearts & wisteria. I walked very slowly, savoring. At the end of the slate path was the house, very recognizable now... "As nearly perfect a little place as I ever lived in" is how Beatrix described it.

Brooms are better for sweeping than for flying,” he said. “Besides, witches these days prefer airplanes. There's an in-flight snack and you arrive at your destination looking fabulous.

Wisteria Ling,” a familiar voice shouted. “I challenge you.” Sariil stood there, one finger pointed at Wisteria. “To a dance? Sariil, I don’t think you quite understand this assignment,” Wisteria said, though she was amused. “Backing down, are you? Seems the great Wisteria Ling is afraid after our last encounter,” Sariil gloated. “Ugh,” Wisteria said, by way of acceptance.

Cecelia acknowledged him with a nod. "Captain Lightbourne, I have heard so much about you. It is a pleasure to" - She held up her hand, and they both waited while her stomach contemplated whether it wished to join in the conversation - "to make your acquaintance," she concluded, and turned to vomit over her corset on the floor. (As a feminist statement, it was ambiguous at best)

He could have the entire world in the palm of his hand if he wanted, but he chooses confirmed happiness rather than the gamble. Fear will stop him from taking a risk, as it does with so many.

I love a horizon. . .That feeling of longing, of mystery and distant magic, pulls always on my soul. I suppose that's where my mother must be. Roaming through the afterlight, stealing heaven. . .

Even so, she’d tried all she could to smooth troubled waters. But Darlington had rudely persisted in avoiding the knife (and gun, poison, rabid dog, fall from a great height, garrote, flaming arrow).

You are a scoundrel,” she whispered furiously. “Yes,” he agreed. “I’m thinking of starting a Society of Gentlemen Scoundrels.” “You’re millennia too late. It already exists and is called the patriarchy.

Nature Boy I was just a boy when I sat down To watch the news on TV I saw some ordinary slaughter I saw some routine atrocity My father said, don't look away You got to be strong, you got to be bold, now He said, that in the end it is beauty That is going to save the world, now And she moves among the sparrows And she floats upon the breeze She moves among the flowers She moves something deep inside of me I was walking around the flower show like a leper Coming down with some kind of nervous hysteria When I saw you standing there, green eyes, black hair Up against the pink and purple wisteria You said, hey, nature boy, are you looking at me With some unrighteous intention? My knees went weak, I couldn't speak, I was having thoughts That were not in my best interests to mention And she moves among the flowers And she floats upon the smoke She moves among the shadows She moves me with just one little look You took me back to your place And dressed me up in a deep sea diver's suit You played the patriot, you raised the flag And I stood at full salute Later on we smoked a pipe that struck me dumb And made it impossible to speak As you closed in, in slow motion, Quoting Sappho, in the original Greek She moves among the shadows She floats upon the breeze She moves among the candles And we moved through the days and through the years Years passed by, we were walking by the sea Half delirious You smiled at me and said, Babe I think this thing is getting kind of serious You pointed at something and said Have you ever seen such a beautiful thing? It was then that I broke down It was then that you lifted me up again She moves among the sparrows And she walks across the sea She moves among the flowers And she moves something deep inside of me She moves among the sparrows And she floats upon the breeze She moves among the flowers And she moves right up close to me

Grow only true friends in your garden, Tansy’s spirit whispered in my head. You’ll know when you have the right ones because they’ll sprout up and bush out like weeds, even if you neglect them from time to time.

Her mental list of items she’d need from her apartment was growing. There were things a girl just couldn’t live without, so Keegan would have to get them when he retrieved Muffin. “I need another purse. Can you get me my Prada knockoff? It’s in my closet on the shelf. Pink. It’s pink. I got it from a vendor in Manhattan. Jeez he was a tough negotiator, but it was worth the haggling. It’s soooo cute.” Keegan sighed, raspy and long. “Okay.” “Oh! And my nail polish. I have two new bottles in the bathroom under the sink in one of those cute organizer baskets, you know? Like the ones you get at Bed Bath and Beyond? God, I love those. Anyway, I need Retro Red and Winsome Wisteria.” Another sigh followed, and then a nod of consent. “My moisturizer. I never go anywhere, not even overnight, without my moisturizer. Not that I ever really go anywhere, but anyway I need it, or my skin will dehydrate and it could just be ugly. Top left side of my medicine cabinet.” “Er, okay.” “My shoes. I can’t be without shoes. Let’s see. I need my tennis shoes and my white sandals, because I don’t think there’s much hope for these, wouldn’t you say?” Marty looked up at him and saw impatience written all over his face. “And my laptop. I can’t check on my clients without my laptop, and they need me. Plus, there’s that no-good bitch Linda Fisher. I have to watch that she’s not stealing my accounts. Do you have all of that?” He gave her that stern look again. The one that made her insides skedaddle around even if it was meant in reproach. “I’m going too far, huh?” His smile was crooked. “Just a smidge.

Crash! The two women looked over at the window as it shattered. A grenade tumbled onto the carpet. Cecilia expelled a sigh of tedium. She snapped the book shut, wended her way through the furnishings, pulled back the drapes, and deposited the grenade through the broken windowpane onto the terrace, where it exploded in a flash of burning light, brick shards, and fluttering lavender buds.

I get to help people every day, and it’s the least I can do. Humanity’s collective knowledge is the result of countless hours of sacrifice and dedication. You know, you can tell a lot about a culture by how much they value knowledge, and by how committed they are to sharing it with everyone.

Welcome home, miss," she said, curtsying. Cecilia reached forward to awkwardly pat the maid's arm. "Thank you, dear. Are you quite all right after your hurried journey?" For Pleasance's curls bristled even more than usual and her eyes shone as if she had skimmed the edge of heaven to get to Pucklechurch and back in time. "I do feel a little consumptive, miss," Pleasance answered cheerfully. "But such is the way of life. A shadow hangs over all of us, claiming our souls even from the moment of birth, and all we can do is surrender or succumb to screaming madness. Please come in.

Monet Refuses the Operation" Doctor, you say that there are no halos around the streetlights in Paris and what I see is an aberration caused by old age, an affliction. I tell you it has taken me all my life to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels, to soften and blur and finally banish the edges you regret I don’t see, to learn that the line I called the horizon does not exist and sky and water, so long apart, are the same state of being. Fifty-four years before I could see Rouen cathedral is built of parallel shafts of sun, and now you want to restore my youthful errors: fixed notions of top and bottom, the illusion of three-dimensional space, wisteria separate from the bridge it covers. What can I say to convince you the Houses of Parliament dissolve night after night to become the fluid dream of the Thames? I will not return to a universe of objects that don’t know each other, as if islands were not the lost children of one great continent. The world is flux, and light becomes what it touches, becomes water, lilies on water, above and below water, becomes lilac and mauve and yellow and white and cerulean lamps, small fists passing sunlight so quickly to one another that it would take long, streaming hair inside my brush to catch it. To paint the speed of light! Our weighted shapes, these verticals, burn to mix with air and changes our bones, skin, clothes to gases. Doctor, if only you could see how heaven pulls earth into its arms and how infinitely the heart expands to claim this world, blue vapor without end.

Yes, I had dreamed of becoming a botanist, my entire life, really. I'd thought a great deal about the various species of maple and rhododendron while braiding challah, and I'd successfully planted a wisteria vine in a large pot and trained it over the awning of the bakery. And at night, after we closed shop, I volunteered at the New York Botanical Garden. Sweeping up cuttings and fallen leaves hardly seemed like work when it provided the opportunity to gaze into the eye of a Phoenix White peony or a Lady Hillingdon rose, with petals the color of apricot preserves. Yes, horticulture, not pastries, was my passion.

Nancy went to the front door, opened it, and walked outside. She breathed deeply of the lovely morning air and headed for the rose garden. She let the full beauty of the estate sink into her consciousness, before permitting herself to think further about the knotty problem before her. Long ago Mr. Drew had taught Nancy that the best way to clear one’s brain is to commune with Nature for a time. Nancy went up one walk and down another, listening to the twittering of the birds and now and then the song of the meadow lark. Again she smelled deeply of the roses and the sweet wisteria which hung over a sagging arbor.

By the dim light of a lantern, they crossed the field toward the oak woods. Ned took the lead then, being more familiar with the nocturnal hazards of a meadow. With his guidance they avoided cow pats, thistles, sudden ditches, murky dark puddles, and an iron rake someone had left lying about just waiting for a comic moment.

Do you mark how the wisteria, sun-impacted on this wall here, distills and penetrates this room as though (light-unimpeded) by secret and attritive progress from mote to mote of obscurity's myriad components? That is the substance of remembering—sense, sight, smell: the muscles with which we see and hear and feel—not mind, not thought: there is no such thing as memory: the brain recalls just what the muscles grope for: no more, no less: and its resultant sum is usually incorrect and false and worthy only of the name of dream.—See how the sleeping outflung hand, touching the bedside candle, remembers pain, springs back and free while mind and brain sleep on and only make of this adjacent heat some trashy myth or reality's escape: or that same sleeping hand, in sensuous marriage with some dulcet surface, is transformed by that same sleeping brain and mind into that same figment-stuff warped out of all experience. Ay, grief goes, fades; we know that—but ask the tear ducts if they have forgotten how to weep

Some time in October, right around Day of the Dead actually, I stayed in a Mexican seaside hotel where the halls flowed with blown curtains and all the rooms were named after flowers. The Azalea Room, the Camellia Room, the Oleander Room. Opulence and splendor, breezy corridors that swept into something like eternity and each room with its different colored door. Peony, Wisteria, Rose, Passion Flower. And who knows – but maybe that’s what’s waiting for us at the end of the journey, a majesty unimaginable until the very moment we find ourselves walking through the doors of it, what we find ourselves gazing at in astonishment when God finally takes His hands off our eyes and says: Look!

Chet took a sip of lime cordial from his martini glass and asked, 'What does it take to be a librarian?' I started listing off the requirements on my fingers. 'A corkscrew for the wine, a closet full of cardigans, the optimism to assume that all brown mystery stains found in books are chocolate, a desk calendar featuring cats in hilarious costumes, and, um, did I mention the cardigans ? Sometimes you need to wear a cardigan over top of your other cardigan if the library is really cold or you spilled wine on yourself.

Everyone knew about Morvath’s hatred of the Darlington clan, which was equaled only by his hatred of the Bassingthwaite clan, his adopted family the Morvath clan, the Hanoverian clan currently represented by Queen Victoria, the Chapman and Hall publishing clan, and the company that made those caramel cream profiteroles that ended up tasting like fish.

Dudley and I were in the alleyway between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk,” said Harry, speaking fast, fighting to control his temper. “Dudley thought he’d be smart with me, I pulled out my wand but didn’t use it. Then two dementors turned up —” “But what ARE dementoids?” asked Uncle Vernon furiously. “What do they DO?” “I told you — they suck all the happiness out of you,” said Harry, “and if they get the chance, they kiss you —” “Kiss you?” said Uncle Vernon, his eyes popping slightly. “Kiss you?” “It’s what they call it when they suck the soul out of your mouth.” Aunt Petunia uttered a soft scream. “His soul? They didn’t take — he’s still got his —” She seized Dudley by the shoulders and shook him, as though testing to see whether she could hear his soul rattling around inside him. “Of course they didn’t get his soul, you’d know if they had,” said Harry, exasperated. “Fought ’em off, did you, son?” said Uncle Vernon loudly, with the appearance of a man struggling to bring the conversation back onto a plane he understood. “Gave ’em the old one-two, did you?” “You can’t give a dementor the old one-two,” said Harry through clenched teeth.

It was a garden, a walled garden. Overgrown but with beautiful bones visible still. Someone had cared for this garden once. The remains of two paths snaked back and forth, intertwined like the lacing on an Irish dancing shoe. Fruit trees had been espaliered around the sides, and wires zigzagged from the top of one wall to the top of another. Hungry, wisteria branches had woven themselves around to form a sort of canopy. Against the southern wall, an ancient and knobbled tree was growing. Cassandra went closer. It was the apple tree, she realized, the one whose bough had reached over the wall. She lifted her hand to touch one of the golden fruit. The tree was about sixteen feet high and shaped like the Japanese bonsai plant Nell had given Cassandra for her twelfth birthday.

One night, having spent a few days in peaceful solitude with my thoughts, I walked under the stars and along the cobbled streets and an idea crept all over me like arresting, vibrant blooms of wisteria. I don’t need a dazzlingly charismatic musician to write a line about me in a song. I don’t need a guru to tell me things about myself I think I don’t know. I don’t need to cut all my hair off because a boy told me it would suit me. I don’t need to change my shape to make myself worthy of someone’s love. I don’t need any words or looks or comments from a man to believe I’m visible; to believe I’m here. I don’t need to run away from discomfort and into a male eyeline. That’s not where I come alive. Because I am enough. My heart is enough. The stories and the sentences twisting around my mind are enough. I am fizzing and frothing and buzzing and exploding. I’m bubbling over and burning up. My early-morning walks and my late-night baths are enough. My loud laugh at the pub is enough. My piercing whistle, my singing in the shower, my double-jointed toes are enough. I am a just-pulled pint with a good, frothy head on it. I am my own universe; a galaxy; a solar system. I am the warm-up act, the main event and the backing singers. And if this is it, if this is all there is – just me and the trees and the sky and the seas – I know now that that’s enough. I am enough. I am enough.

My eye keeps escaping towards the big blue lacquered door that I've had painted in a trompe-l'oeil on the back wall. I would like to call Mrs. Cohen back and tell her there's no problem for her son's bar mitzvah, everything's ready: I would like to go through that door and disappear into the garden my mind's eye has painted behind it. The grass there is soft and sweet, there are bulrushes bowing along the banks of a river. I put lime trees in it, hornbeams, weeping elms, blossoming cherries and liquidambars. I plant it with ancient roses, daffodils, dahlias with their melancholy heavy heads, and flowerbeds of forget-me-nots. Pimpernels, armed with all the courage peculiar to such tiny entities, follow the twists and turns between the stones of a rockery. Triumphant artichokes raise their astonished arrows towards the sky. Apple trees and lilacs blossom at the same time as hellebores and winter magnolias. My garden knows no seasons. It is both hot and cool. Frost goes hand in hand with a shimmering heat haze. The leaves fall and grow again. row and fall again. Wisteria climbs voraciously over tumbledown walls and ancient porches leading to a boxwood alley with a poignant fragrance. The heady smell of fruit hangs in the air. Huge peaches, chubby-cheeked apricots, jewel-like cherries, redcurrants, raspberries, spanking red tomatoes and bristly cardoons feast on sunlight and water, because between the sunbeams it rains in rainbow-colored droplets. At the very end, beyond a painted wooden fence, is a woodland path strewn with brown leaves, protected from the heat of the skies by a wide parasol of foliage fluttering in the breeze. You can't see the end of it, just keep walking, and breathe.

TAKING LEAVE Of the unhindered motion in the million swirled and twisted grooves of the juniper driftwood lying in the sand; taking leave of each sapphire and amber thread and each iridescent bead of the swallowtail's wing and of the quick and clever needle of the seamstress in the dark cocoon that accomplished the stitching. Goodbye to the long pale hairs of the swaying grassflowers, so like, in grace and color and bearing, the nodding antennae of the green valley grasshopper clinging to its blade; and to the staircase shell of the butter-colored wendletrap and to the branches of the sourwood making their own staircase with each step upward they take and to the spiraling of the cobweb weaver twirling as it descends on its silk out of the shadows of the pitch pine. Taking leave of the sea of spring, that grey-green swell slowly rising, spreading, its heavy wisteria-scented surf filled with darting, gliding, whistling fish, a current of cries, an undertow of moans and buzzes, so pervasive and penetrating and alluring that the lungs adapt to the density. Determined not to slight the knotted rockweed or the beach plum or the white, blue-tipped petals of the five spot; determined not to overlook the pursed orange mouth of each maple leaf just appearing or the entire chorus of those open leaves in full summer forte. My whole life, a parting from the brazen coyote thistle and the reticent, tooth-ridged toad crab and the proud, preposterous sage grouse. And you mustn't believe that the cessation which occurs here now is more than illusory; the ritual of this leave-taking continues beyond these lines, in a whisper beside the window, below my breath by the river, without noise through the clearing at midnight, even in the dark, even in sleep, continues, out-of-notice, private, incessant.