Best 13 quotes of Wheston Chancellor Grove on MyQuotes

Wheston Chancellor Grove

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    Wheston Chancellor Grove

    Above all her voice moved him. He had not known that an accent seduced his emotions. But he’d always been drawn to those with an accent. Be it woman or man. It sounded nicer. A lavender husk. More proper, elegant. American English was clumsy, clipped, flat. No lilt, nothing guttural, boring, unpleasant. He had no exotic fetishes. His attuned ear seemed to be remembering voices from another life, another time. He could never escape the sense that he’d lost a life dear to him and that life was lived in another language.

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    Wheston Chancellor Grove

    Above all her voice moved him. He had not known that an accent seduced his emotions. But he’d always been drawn to those with an accent. Be it woman or man. It sounded nicer. A lavender husk. More proper, elegant. His attuned ear seemed to be remembering voices from another life, another time. He could never escape the sense that he’d lost a life dear to him and that life was lived in another language. -from Who Has Known Heights: The Mystique Memoirs of a Melancholic Mind

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    Wheston Chancellor Grove

    After lunch four of us have our picture taken. Regn, myself, Fernus, and Sharon. I grip my brown lunch bag in hand, Fernus holds her soda can, Regn makes a funny expression. But what strikes me about this photograph is the shadow. We are standing in Group Reservations, the sun streaming in from above, through the skylight, and directly behind my head a giant starred reflection is cast on the wall. It is cast there as a pointed halo of sorts. I am next to Regn, she wears her sunglasses though we are still indoors. My face looks so young, my eyes do not betray any weariness. The pain is gradual. The pain is two years and more ahead. Is the star the crest of my youth? Does it suggest what I’ve always known—that something more, something far greater was in store for me? Looking back and all that’s come to pass, I can tell you yes. With a full and tired heart, I can tell you yes. I am not inclined to whimsy or overly-superstitious; however, there are signs and sometimes they must be noticed or you are a fool to dismiss them. I knew from an early age I was different. I saw the world from a distance. I was born to suffer and endure, but in so doing, if I succeeded, I was born for distinction. It was not conceit, but the knowing of Self and sometimes the frustration, the tedious ache of patience, rendered me doubtful.

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    Wheston Chancellor Grove

    Anything could happen here and who would know? It was a new place to me, but timeless in its own right. Regn had never stood here. All these years since and we'd been so close to 'this' obscurity. Its hidden proximity is what disquieted.

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    Wheston Chancellor Grove

    Confidence is being sure even when you don’t have all the answers. It’s a gut feeling. A sensibility that doesn’t always have proof going into the situation but most nearly always has evidence on the way out.

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    Wheston Chancellor Grove

    I will miss myself in relation to others. The rareness. The exceptional differences. I will miss the gift that comes with hardship and paying the price. I will miss the tragedy of my own life. As I once spoke...emphatically, but I now repeat here, quietly—the pain, the pain is what made it so God damn beautiful. I endured. You can wait a lifetime for thirty seconds, five minutes, or for an hour to come into your life—a brief interval that makes all the suffering purposeful. In such moments of splendor and rapture—even if the rapture be stilled, the private hours and years of reckoning are unloaded, a burden lifted and the spirit feels as it did on the happiest day of its life when it was young and untormented Or rather, unconscious of the torment waiting to be ignited.

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    Wheston Chancellor Grove

    Loneliness is an emaciation of the spirit. -Who Has Known Heights: The Mystique Memoirs of a Melancholic Mind

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    Wheston Chancellor Grove

    That he had been born an artist—in all ways—a paragon of romantic torment out of the likes of some Brontë novel—has yet to make itself known to him. He watches himself unfold.

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    Wheston Chancellor Grove

    The body is a museum for memories. I am the Smithsonian.

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    Wheston Chancellor Grove

    There reaches a time when it is betrayal for a woman to sleep with her husband.

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    Wheston Chancellor Grove

    To love completely is to remember a time and place before; the knowledge of losing it only strengthens it. —from Who Has Known Heights: The Mystique Memoirs of a Melancholic Mind

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    Wheston Chancellor Grove

    To this day when I inhale a light scent of Wrangler—its sweet sharpness—or the stronger, darker scent of Musk, I return to those hours and it ceases to be just cologne that I take in but the very scent of age, of youth at its most beautiful peak. It bears the memory of possibility, of unknown forests, unchartered territories, and a heart light and skipping, hell-bent as the captain of any of the three ships, determined at all costs to prevail to the new world. Turning back was no option. Whatever the gales, whatever the emaciation, whatever the casualty to self, onward I kept my course. My heart felt the magnetism of its own compass guiding me on—its direction constant and sure. There was no other way through. I feel it again as once it had been, before it was broken-in; its strength and resolute ardency. The years of solitude were nothing compared to what lay ahead. In sailing for the horizon that part of my life had been sealed up, a gentle eddy, a trough of gentle waves diminishing further, receding away. Whatever loneliness and pain went with the years between the ages of 14 and 20, was closed, irretrievable—I was already cast in form and direction in a certain course. When I open the little bottle of eau de toilette five hundred different days unfold within me, conversations so strained, breaking slowly, so painstakingly, to a comfortable place. A place so warm and inviting after the years of silence and introspect, of hiding. A place in the sun that would burn me alive before I let it cast a shadow on me. Until that time I had not known, I had not been conscious of my loneliness. Yes, I had been taciturn in school, alone, I had set myself apart when others tried to engage. But though I was alone, I had not felt the pangs of loneliness. It had not burdened or tormented as such when I first felt the clear tang of its opposite in the form of another’s company. Of Regn’s company. We came, each in our own way, in our own need—listening, wanting, tentatively, as though we came upon each other from the side in spite of having seen each other head on for two years. It was a gradual advance, much again like a vessel waiting for its sails to catch wind, grasping hold of the ropes and learning much too quickly, all at once, how to move in a certain direction. There was no practicing. It was everything and all—for the first and last time. Everything had to be right, whether it was or not. The waters were beautiful, the work harder than anything in my life, but the very glimpse of any tempest of defeat was never in my line of vision. I’d never failed at anything. And though this may sound quite an exaggeration, I tell you earnestly, it is true. Everything to this point I’d ever set my mind to, I’d achieved. But this wasn’t about conquering some land, nor had any of my other desires ever been about proving something. It just had to be—I could not break, could not turn or retract once I’d committed myself to my course. You cannot force a clock to run backwards when it is made to persevere always, and ever, forward. Had I not been so young I’d never have had the courage to love her.

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    Wheston Chancellor Grove

    Westcott gets a ginger ale and a Heineken. He doesn’t want the latter. He has to make the pretense. Sitting beside Regn ("Wren") the front of her black dress opens enough. It is respectable and nothing more. He does not like a woman who flaunts her cleavage. Regn is not one of those women. Westcott cautiously looks to see the elusive hummingbird etched above her right breast. He finds himself inhaling deeply, with complete imperceptibility to anyone who might be watching—though no one is—to catch the scent of her perfume. Sharon drags him onto the dance floor. Her husband doesn’t mind. After all it is innocent. They meander across the floor to Regn who is shaking out a rhythm by herself like so many of the dancers. None of the men ask Regn to dance. Everyone more or less has a date or spouse. Regn and Sharon each take one of Westcott’s hands. The three move together. Or rather they move his limbs. He wants to step lightly, freely, to sweep across the floor. He knows he could if it was just he and Regn and no one was watching. But no, that won’t do either. He wants to dance as a gentleman—to lead and direct this woman with precision, the precision and deliberateness with which he’s pursued her, unwittingly. He wants the world to look upon them and see what he hides. He wants to be applauded and yes, even envied a bit, for his grace and certainty of step. More than anything he wants Regn to move with him. Had he the confidence, the experience, were he a true man, it could never have happened. It is the slow advance that makes her love him. In many ways he is just a boy. She wants to protect him, but sometimes that look, that expression, is so old, determined. He knows what she wants. She can’t deny the way the feeling of being loved makes her feel. It’s been so long.