My dad at the baccarat table, in the air-conditioned midnight. There's always more to things, a hidden level. Luck in its darker moods and manifestations. Consulting the stars, waiting to make the big bets when Mercury was in retrograde, reaching for a knowledge just beyond the known. Black his lucky color, nine his lucky number. Hit me again pal. There's a pattern and we're a part of it. Yet if you scratched very deep at that idea of pattern {which apparently he had never taken the trouble to do}, you hit an emptiness so dark that it destroyed, categorically, anything you'd ever looked at or thought of as light.
( Donna Tartt )
[ The Goldfinch ]
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