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When you write the story of being a father don’t leave out the joy.

The onus is on you, because you care about your car and your life.

There isn’t a nice Jewish boy in sight—not that I’m looking for one.

I open the door and Eleanor is leaning against the wall, paper white.

I never actually existed. I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s clear as day.

Can there have been something in my letter, that unlucky letter?

My job requires me to make things disappear like a Vegas magician.

When the doctors’ voices started turning to noise, I didn’t fight it.

This is a novel that contains more than its actuarial share of falls.

Dad is catnip to the lady residents. He’s tall and lean, plus he’s got all his hair.

The nights she and Wade have sex she can’t do so without feeling guilty.

You and the cat wish I were baking pumpkin pie and we were happier.

“When we heard the horn, we left—our faces wet—not looking back.”

Her mother singing out the window at trucks slamming the other way.

won’t you celebrate with me that every day has tried to kill me

A rumour went round that the Australians had bulletproof clothing.

At Pompeii the little dog lay curled and did not rise but slept the deeper.

“The basis of literary friendship is mixing the poisoned bowl.”

Not the Olympics, the guard said. Just chuck yourself down the tube.

Sweet breath hard breath. Every breath a stone-cold bird in thaw.

Her cheek was like a plum about to burst and you had to close your eyes.

She was painting a bedroom, trying to be a good mother, wife, Catholic.

“O youth! The strength of it, the faith of it, the imagination of it!”

Dr. Zee knows his son is struggling up out of some chemical fog.