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.
The peanut seller tore sheets out of paperback books to make the cones.
The distant past returned—what part of it, he could not decide.
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.
Lebanon’s dreams of a homeland were fading with every rocket launch.
He ended every year in this manner, writing and dreaming.
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.
She favoured me with an even more viciously scornful “Don’t care!”
When he had passed from view, I stumbled back from the window.
In a way she enjoyed the slow, sad feeling of letting it go.
How much simpler and more satisfying was the company of men.
I needed a paycheck a lot more than I needed to be kissed.
The tree was shaggy and it bore scars of shrapnel from the war.
The guards ripped off Mara’s clothes, pinning her head against the wall.
The chocolate was old, dusty white, the way chocolate gets after many years.
She remembers that golden ocean, the promise of a whole new land.
There was something in her voice, some awful, enduring fire.
If he’d had that seat belt on, he would have been pinned inside.