Vierte amor en las heridas.
The thing about this bookshelf is that each of these books is a vast experience unto itself, while also being both self-contained and superbly useless. Reading any one of them doesn't get you anywhere...
The clacking of the checkers on the hardwood points was the music of honest thought, resounding in silence as it navigated the fortunes told by the pips on the dice.
The alphabet Miss Poobner taught was represented on the wall above her head by a series of personified cartoonlike letters--Mr. A, Eating an Apple; Mrs. B, Buying a Broom; and so on--and something ins...
Someday I'd change my name to Shut Up and save everybody a lot of time.
Some people have things written all over their faces; the big guy had a couple of words misspelled in crayon on his.
Minutes died serially into hours. Bruno
Like other names I censored lately, this was a vote against invoking monsters, against etching their reality into the air.
In the sea of words, the is foam, surf bubbles riding the top. And it's a dark sea, and deep, where divers need lights on their helmets and would perish at the lower depths.
I'm learning to hate the sound of my own voice.
How’s it feel to be a worthless jumbo diddly-ass puppetool?
Hospital turned out to represent a punctuated tedium, the recurrence of blood pressure and temperature checks, the placement and emptying of bedpans and painful switching of IV lines from the crook of...
He couldn't be more than twenty-five, but he obviously lived enough to have things to regret. He looked like he'd taken a long fall a short time ago. Pieces of the man he'd been were jumbled up with t...
Each might have been a week except for night’s failure to come and close the deal. When
Destroy the traces. I’d never tried to do that. Instead I’d lived in their midst for thirty years, oblivious, a blind man fancying himself invisible.
Consensual reality is both fragile and elastic, and it heals like the skin of a bubble.
A superhero spliced criminals from victims. In Gowanus things tended to be more mixed up.
Paranoid art, unlike paranoid persons, also distrusts itself. And so, paranoid art is the ultimate opposite, the urgent opposite, of complacent art.
We were in a middle space then, in a cone of white, father and son moving forward at a certain speed. Side by side, not truly quiet but quiescent, two gnarls of human scribble, human cipher, human dre...
This was the time when all we could talk about was sentences, sentences—nothing else stirred us. Whatever happened in those days, whatever befell our regard, Clea and I couldn’t rest until it had been...