We take our solace, in a time of malaise and mourning, in the close-at-hand.
Insomnia! There is a sickly romance to the affliction—initially.
Americans have always a kind of tenderness for cheat.
I was convinced she’d be back in the morning, like the sun.
I felt awful about imposing on him, but I was desperate to see the Derby.
Any white man without a servant was presumed to be in need of help.
Why do girls want to cheerlead? Don’t they know it objectifies women?
I understood that life could end without warning, even young lives.
I could not tell what visions were vanishing in the dying slave.
His hands were the last to go under, pressed together into a little steeple.
I asked for water, and he shot me a look of henpecked resentment.
I had fantasies of Papa telling my son the stories he never told me.
A high roller gave her money to stay in his room for the weekend.
They lived on the street, their mom a prostitute and heroin addict.
I care only about the little body wiggling in that plastic bassinet.
Atomic bomb. How could those two words be said together?
Paharganj reels with beggars. Old women, boys, breast-feeding girls.
In medical school they forgot to tell me about caring and feeling.
Once she said, “Dying is nothing, but . . . the separation!”
For Henry Moore there is not only the best day but the worst.
I don’t know who he wants to be, and it’s not because I haven’t asked.
Fishing with Dad guaranteed two days of just us and made me special.
The sounds of Africa exploded around the white men and women.
“This is no vacation,” I told friends and reluctant donors.
I made him love me. To feel abandonment—again.
The wine was administered to Theo’s lips, and then the rest of us.
Only one constant existed: I wrote. Writing was my center of gravity.