Each morning, despite the unknowns, they made their legs move.
Don't throw away luck on little stuff. Save it up.
Stories are for joining the past to the future.
What stories can do, I guess, is make things present.
And sometimes remembering will lead to a story, which makes it forever.
Stories can save us.
…he wanted to sleep inside her lungs and breathe her blood and be smothered. He wanted her to be a virgin and not a virgin all at once. He wanted to know her. Intimate secrets: Why poetry? Why so sad?...
Stories are for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story.
You can't fix your mistakes. Once people are dead, you can't make them undead.
My whole life seemed to spill out into the river, swirling away from me, everything I had ever been or ever wanted to be.
There is always the threat of tomorrow's treachery, or next year's treachery, or the treachery implicit in all the tomorrows beyond that.
There it is, they'd say. Over and over—there it is, my friend, there it is—as if the repetition itself were an act of poise, a balance between crazyand almost crazy, knowing without going, there it is...
They would get their shit together, and keep it together, and maintain it neatly and in good working order.
I detested their blind, thoughtless, automatic acquiescence to it all, their simpleminded patriotism, their prideful ignorance, their love-it-or-leave-it platitudes, how they were sending me off to a...
Sert bir dil kullanırlardı o korkunç yumuşaklığı kapsayabilmek için. Nallandı derlerdi. Göçtü, işerken şişlendi. Acımasızlık değildi, sahne duruşuydu sadece. Oyuncuydular. Biri öldüğünde tam ölmek gib...
In many ways he was like America itself, big and strong, full of good intentions, a roll of fat jiggling at his belly, slow of foot but always plodding along, always there when you needed him, a belie...
They shared the weight of memory. They took up what others could no longer bear. Often,
On occasions the war was like a Ping-Pong ball. You could put fancy spin on it, you could make it dance.
Sun and waves and gentle winds, all love and lightness.
The afternoon had passed to a ghostly gray. She was struck by the immensity of things, so much water and sky and forest, and after a time it occurred to her that she’d lived a life almost entirely ind...
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