Chapter Fourteen

"What happened?" was the first question. ...
     "Hives," I said. I was getting used to them.

--From Ann Patchett's Truth and Beauty

I completely understand Ann. I imagine her million red blotches, constantly imploring to be scratched.  I remember when I had hives all over me--I was utterly shocked by the fact that I was, in fact, allergic to something in this world, for the first time in my life. I stopped using shampoo, body wash, lotion once at a time but even after three immensely long months, could not determine what I was allergic to. I rubbed all kinds of skin ointment, scrupulously medicated myself Benadryl, and tried very hard to resist the urge to give a little scratch. So after five months, I was on the verge of giving up. 

In the end, it turned out to be my laundry detergent. I therefore immediately banned my use of All and bought Tide--the one that's fragrance-free, colorless, and most importantly, dermatologist-tested. My hives began to disappear. You don't know how liberating that felt--to not have any more red blotches that became bumps that eventually bled and finally left scars. To not be sleepy and tempted all the time. To not be asked questions. 

Chapter Thirteen

Then she got a note from George Staphanopoulos. 
...
Of course that must have been the thing that everyone was thinking, everyone she told the story to. Did you tell him about your face?
     After that she asked me constantly, "Why didn't he call me again?" 
     "You said that he wouldn't. You said mutually no sparks."
     "It's because I'm ugly," she said. "I know why."

--From Ann Patchett's Truth and Beauty

Poor Lucy. Mr. Staphanopoulos should have known better. Lucy was a brilliant writer--successful, famous, adventurous. Perfect, except she thought of her small defect called a face too much. She needn't.

Chapter Twelve

     "You're a poet," I said when she read me everything she had.
     "I want to be a novelist."
     "You're a novelist, too. Don't worry about that." I believed at that moment there was nothing to worry about. Her writing was gorgeous. She could write a novel as long as she could find a way to stay in her chair.

From Ann Patchett's Truth and Beauty

I wish I could be a poet and a novelist at the same time like Lucy. 

I read a very worthwhile passage in the SAT yesterday. It said that one needs 10,000 hours of practice to become an eclat professional in whatever skill one wanted to perfect. 20 hours a week for 10 years. I think Lucy became one in less than 10,000 hours. 

Chapter Eleven

      Lucy knew which cat wanted to be held and which one wanted to be smacked. The weight she put on things so often struck me as backwards, but in some ways she had a deep understanding of the logic of the world. I would have thought that the prospect of getting teeth after twenty years spent without them would have been thrilling or daunting, but she shrugged it off. She had no interest in obsessing over possible outcomes. She would simply go and see what they had to say and that was all there was to do. And she was right.

--From Ann Patchett's Truth and Beauty

Getting teeth. Most of her teeth was gone because of radioactivity since she was ten. So chewing and swallowing was a very strenuous undertaking for Lucy. She was humiliated lest anyone see her drooling, unclosed mouth. She was embarrassed to eat in front of people. So getting teeth was supposed to be exciting for her. After talking with good doctors who suggested her nearly impossible options, she cried. But Lucy didn't lose hope. Perhaps she was so hopeful that she chased after even the most impossible.