A story about what changes and what remains the same, in just six words.
I don’t want fiction. What I want is truth. Or someone’s version of it.
“I think he does not care for art; I fancy he has not even read Pushkin.”
Human language, Winston thought, was not adequate for spiritual union.
There was no sense in brushing off or any other civilized thing.
I was enraged at being alone on the outside of all that love and lust.
The peanut seller tore sheets out of paperback books to make the cones.
I shoved them one by one, easy as pie yet with care, just shy of mercy.
Certainly the ushers who pass the baskets know me as a miser.
You will be a broke blues man with only some story of how you were.
Life, then, was song and purple font, imagining in words a future.
I want to focus on bears. On knowing them, and on what they need.
Passions played among the orchids and through cherish and reveal.
Man is always beginning everything anew, even in his own life.
He ended every year in this manner, writing and dreaming.
I can see on him how things are changing for and against us.
My daughter’s favorite game is Holocaust. She’s quite inventive.
Paul King was shiftless and drunken; ugly tales were told of him.
She did not leave him for the sailor. So why should he be angry?
So that’s what I’d look like if every beauty parlor in the world shut down.
Two weeks after she and Mark were married, Hannah fell in love.
I grabbed him by the face and told him life only comes to a person once.
The allure of Mardi Gras is to feel this way: unseen and unseeable.
We never really had what might be considered a normal conversation.
For me, Selweh was the real magic. She was nothing like my mother.
Americans have always a kind of tenderness for cheat.
I have, in the long solitude of my body, asked for something else.
How much simpler and more satisfying was the company of men.
I was convinced she’d be back in the morning, like the sun.
The chocolate was old, dusty white, the way chocolate gets after many years.