All diseases were conquered. Death was an adventure for volunteers.
A widow is sort of a holy figure, while a divorcée is a tawdry one.
“I think he does not care for art; I fancy he has not even read Pushkin.”
A gravely ill man was waiting for me in a village ten miles distant.
The dog glares back at Roger, his eyes on fire, but he doesn’t let her go.
Human language, Winston thought, was not adequate for spiritual union.
There was no sense in brushing off or any other civilized thing.
The peanut seller tore sheets out of paperback books to make the cones.
The prisoners were ten ragged scarecrows wearing prison suits.
Certainly the ushers who pass the baskets know me as a miser.
“We’d be naive,” Crump went on, “not to assume that people are vile.”
The preacher looked me in the eye. He laid his hand on my chest.
Frank kept his face blank as he read the orders: Report to Berlin.
Lebanon’s dreams of a homeland were fading with every rocket launch.
They went to pray for the dead. It was important to shed some tears.
Felicia knew why he was there. He was waiting. Waiting for her.
He ended every year in this manner, writing and dreaming.
Chess was a humiliation that hung over him like a leper’s bell.
I can see on him how things are changing for and against us.
Lorenzo and me, we’d squat our own building. It was the new frontier.
My daughter’s favorite game is Holocaust. She’s quite inventive.
Paul King was shiftless and drunken; ugly tales were told of him.
Some inner voice told her that now or never her fate would be decided.
The allure of Mardi Gras is to feel this way: unseen and unseeable.
She favoured me with an even more viciously scornful “Don’t care!”
When he had passed from view, I stumbled back from the window.
She is complaisant with all her clothes off. She moves to his touch.
In a way she enjoyed the slow, sad feeling of letting it go.
She is very rich. She will leave me everything when she dies, he says.