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I have become positively obsessed with Anne Enright’s writing. I wish I could capture the world, human interaction and experience, with the same kind of unexpected raw beauty and poignancy. The paradoxical emotions of life. She crafts her words so brilliantly. And for that, I am incredibly envious. Here are two of my favorite quotes from the first book I’ve read of hers.

Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood

The world is chock-full of ignored objects, for which the baby has no filter. A discarded CD, a packet of seeds, a tweezers, a notebook. I am worn out and amazed by her constant ambient, grazing attention, as she flings herself from me to get at one thing or another, obliging me to catch her, time and again. The world is a circus and I am her trapeze, her stilts, her net. Not just mother, also platform and prothesis. I’m not sure I feel like a person, anymore.

Yesterday, it was warm, and I took off her socks and stood her on the grass. She loved this, but maybe not so much as I did – her first experience of grass. For her, this green stuff was just as different and as delicious as everything else – the ‘first’ was all mine. Sometimes, I feel as though I am introducing her to my own nostalgia for the world. 

Thanks to a three hour flight delay at BWI yesterday afternoon, I’m almost done with The Gathering, a Man Booker prize winner. And with very good reason. (Although it appears that the GoodReads audience disagrees. Pshaw to them!)