The thought of killing myself had slowed me down to five miles per hour. The thought of killing someone else stopped me completely.
It is funny the things that run through your mind when you're sitting in your underpants in front of a pair of strangers.
I'd tried to straighten him out, but there's only so much you can do for a person who thinks Auschwitz is a brand of beer.
Clatter of a typewriter suggests that you're actually building something.
The fact is that, unless we’re with friends or family, we’re all like talking dolls, endlessly repeating the same trite and tiresome lines: Hello, how are you? Hot enough out there? Don’t work too har...
I was just struggling with my inner vachette and pondering the depths of my own inhumanity.
Owl love you forever
My conscience is crosswired with my sweat glands, but there's a short in the system and I break out over things I didn't do, which only makes me look more suspect.
That man tried to picka my frienda’s pocketoni!
Sex, the driver said, Has no one ever told you about it?I took the New York Times from my carry-on bag and pretended to read, an act that apparently explained it all.Ohhh, the driver said, I understan...
It hardly seemed fair, because, unlike a horse or a Seeing Eye dog, the whole glory of being a bird is that nobody would ever put you to work.
I am a person who feels guilty for crimes I have not committed, or have not committed in years. The police search the train station for a serial rapist and I cover my face with a newspaper, wondering...
I haven't got the slightest idea how to change people, but still I keep a long list of prospective candidates just in case I should ever figure it out.
There seemed to be some correlation between devotion to God and a misguided zeal for marshmallows.
The thing about sports, at least for guys, is that nobody ever defines the rules, not even in gym class. Asking what a penalty means is like asking who Jesus was. It’s one of those things you’re just...
September 14, 2001What killed me, what killed many of us, was the very end: My home sweet home. Because, whatever else Paris might be, this _is not_ our home, it's just the place where we have our job...
Like most seasoned phonies, I roundly suspect that everyone is as disingenuous as I am.
It's hard to love a place that's outlawed smoking but finds it perfectly acceptable to serve raw fish in a bath of chocolate.
In some of the early northern European paintings, Christ looks like you flushed him out from under a bridge, but in Sunday-school books and the sorts of pictures they sell at Christian supply stores,...
Certain motherfuckers think they can fuck with my shit, but you can't kill the Rooster. You might can fuck him up some times, but, bitch, nobody kills the motherfucking Rooster. You know what I'm sayi...