Garden of Evil. Over here, man, every sin’s real fresh and original. (p80 Mitch Sanders in How to Tell a True War Story)
He felt crazy sometimes. Real depravity. Late at night an electric sizzle came into his blood, a tight pumped-up killing rage, and he couldn't keep it in and he couldn't let it out. He wanted to hurt...
He killed me at the Scrabble board, barely concentrating, and on those occasions when speech was necessary he had a way of compressing large thoughts into small, cryptic packets of language.
It was a brisk, polite town. It did not know shit about shit, and did not care to know. Norman Bowker leaned back and considered what he might’ve said on the subject. He knew shit. It was his specialt...
The world shrieks and sinks talons into our hearts. This we call memory.
He wished he could've explained some of this. How he had been braver than he ever thought possible, but how he had not been so brave as he wanted to be. The distinction was important.
You're never more alive than when you're almost dead.
Her white skin and those dark brown eyes and the way she always smiled at the world - always, it seemed - as if her face had been designed that way. The smile never went away.
It occurred to me that the act of writing had led me through a swirl of memories that might otherwise have ended in paralysis or worse. By telling stories, you objectify your own experience. You separ...
Каждый держался, как умел. Иной принимал рассеянно-пренебрежительный вид, иной прикрывался напускной гордостью, другие солдатской выправкой или ненужным рвением. Они боялись смерти, еще больше боялись...
How crazy it was that people who were so incredibly alive could get so incredibly dead
They sat smoking the dead mans dope until the chopper came
When a man died, there had to be blame. Jimmy Cross understood this. You could blame the war, You could blame the idiots who made the war. You could blame Kiowa for going to it. You could blame the ra...
Общим был груз их памяти. Одни несли то, на что не хватало сил у других. Бывало, несли друг друга, если кто-нибудь был ранен или выбивался из сил. Переносили недомогания.
It was the burden of being alive. Awkwardly, the men would reassemble themselves, first in private, then in groups, becoming soldiers again. They would repair the leaks in their eyes. They would check...
The presence of danger has a way of making you feel fully awake.
I have tried, of course, to be faithful to the evidence. Yet evidence is not truth. It is only evident.
It was boredom with a twist, the kind of boredom that caused stomach disorders. (p 34 Spin)
I saw no unity of purpose, no consensus on matters of philosophy or history or law. The very facts were shrouded in uncertainty: Was it a civil war? A war of national liberation or simple aggression?...
We are fascinated, all of us, by the implacable otherness of others. And we wish to penetrate those leaden walls that encase the human spirit, that define it, and hold it forever inaccessible. (I love...
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