And it was precisely this intersection of reality and miracle that kept James in awe of this life: a life that was indeed built with equal parts biology and beauty.
. . .
Doubt was the fucking enemy, Arlene said. Of all good art.
. . .
How the gambling was the same as the painting, when you thought about it; art was always a hunch, a lead you followed into the dark, whose outcome you'd never know until it was all over, a game that you could lose.
. . .
It isn't enough to be beautiful, James thought he heard her say, though with the ringing in his ears he couldn't know for sure. Beautiful is for other people. You have to be something for you.
. . .
That's the thing about love, he thinks. There's nothing to be done about it.
. . .
Relief overcomes Engales, as if it is only now – when he imagines someone he loves loving it, seeing in it what he sees – that this room full of paintings can become beautiful, or valid, or real.
