The whole notion of the nursing home was something dreamed up by people like my mother; American women with sunglasses, always searching for their tanning lotion or cigarette lighters.
The landscape is best described as 'pedestrian hostile.' It's pointless to try to take a walk, so I generally just stay in the room and think about shooting myself in the head.
Like all of my friends, she's a lousy judge of character.
Back in New York I took full advantage of my status as a native speaker. I ran my mouth to shop clerks and listened in on private conversations, realising I’d gone an entire month without hearing anyo...
It's odd the things that people remember. Parents will arrange a birthday party, certain it will stick in your mind forever. You'll have a nice time, then two years later you'll be like, 'There was a...
It is funny the things that run through your mind when you're sitting in your underpants in front of a pair of strangers.
He die one day, and then he go above of my head to live with your father.He weared the long hair, and after he died, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples.He nice, the Jesus.
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.
But I have no mind for business and considered staying awake to be enough of an accomplishment.
The thought of killing myself had slowed me down to five miles per hour. The thought of killing someone else stopped me completely.
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.
I was just struggling with my inner vachette and pondering the depths of my own inhumanity.
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...
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...
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,...
Your trash. You’re trash. Your family’s trash.
Well, where did it come from? I asked. How did I get it?
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.