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If others call you a maniac or a fool, just let them wag their tongues.

A gravely ill man was waiting for me in a village ten miles distant.

The prisoners were ten ragged scarecrows wearing prison suits.

I shoved them one by one, easy as pie yet with care, just shy of mercy.

“We’d be naive,” Crump went on, “not to assume that people are vile.”

Ghosts are real. This much I know. It’s the living that give me trouble.

I sometimes forget I’m a horse. I’m also a man dressed as a horse.

My grandfather committed my grandmother to a mental asylum.

She had been sleeping more and more as the tour went on.

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.

“We see you tryin’ to hide. Ain’t no use tryin’ to hide in God’s House.”

Chess was a humiliation that hung over him like a leper’s bell.

She favoured me with an even more viciously scornful “Don’t care!”

Americans have always a kind of tenderness for cheat.

In a way she enjoyed the slow, sad feeling of letting it go.

I have, in the long solitude of my body, asked for something else.

I needed a paycheck a lot more than I needed to be kissed.

However hard you try to make amends, they will still condemn you.

On my way to the airport I hit a Christian. This was in Arkansas.

There was something in her voice, some awful, enduring fire.

He said he had come back to the prison because it was home.

Mostly he was in a hurry, so he’d just stick it in and away we’d go.

The event was an accelerator. So much matter crashed, vaporized.

From the flight deck Gray could see home, wherever that might be.

I’m mourning in the armpits of a lover we once called a family friend.

We’ve seen the news. We know the story. How even our bodies hurt us.

When you are sixteen and sixty-five pounds, you are all shadows.