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[...] Whatever vague concept of truth I had previously tried to represent in pigment had evaded me, not because I lacked skill but because truth simply did not exist, especially not in art. Yes, I told myself, standing before the unstretched canvas, sipping from a jug of martinis Webb had fixed for…

[...] The most beautiful woman in the world had become, after some years, the woman she found most beautiful, and the woman she found most beautiful had become, after a while, merely beautiful, merely nice-looking, turning, eventually, around the time Navini was sixteen or seventeen, into just anot…

[...] It was so typical of her mother to act like she wasn’t wanted, so manipulative of her to say she wished she hadn’t come, to try to hurt the daughter who was in fact the only one in her life who took the time to talk to her and try to understand her, though it was no use anymore, she went on, …

[...] The obvious issues with her outfits started coming up, that her bra straps were visible beneath the straps of her tank top, that the pants she wore when going out were too low-rise, but what bothered her mother often had less to do with how revealing her clothes were than with the strange ide…

I suppose that character was a way of exploring what it is when one’s life is one’s art. But her extreme asceticism, the way she rejects whatever doesn’t serve her art⁠—that’s not me at all. I don’t know if it’s obvious from reading that book, but I hate the Cheffe’s intensity⁠—the way, for instanc…