Even in the deep bush, where you could die any number of ways, the war was nakedly and aggressively boring. But it was a strange boredom. It was boredom with a twist, the kind of boredom that caused s...
Even then, at nine years old, I wanted to live inside her body. I wanted to melt into her bones - THAT kind of love.
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.
I remember Mitchell Sanders sitting quietly in the shade of an old banyan tree. He was using a thumbnail to pry off the body lice, working slowly, carefully depositing the lice in a blue USO envelope....
They were afraid of dying but they were even more afraid to show it...they died so as not to die of embarrassment...they were too frightened to be cowards. (p 20-21 TTTC)
Мы живем в наших душах как в неизведанных странах, расчистив себе для обитания лишь по маленькой площадке; в душе ближнего мы знаем лишь полоску вдоль нашей с ним границы.Эдит Уортон. «Пробный камень»
То, что Джон Уэйд пошел на войну, было заложено в природе любви. Не ради того он пошел, чтобы гробить других или себя, не ради того, чтобы быть хорошим гражданином, или героем, или человеком нравствен...
That's what fiction is for. It's for getting at the truth when the truth isn't sufficient for the truth.
If you don't care for obscenity, you don't care for the truth.
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...
People who were so incredibly alive could get so incredibly dead.
It’s a hard thing to explain to somebody who hasn’t felt it, but the presence of death and danger has a way of bringing you fully awake. It makes things vivid. When you’re afraid, really afraid, you s...
But in a story, which is a kind of dreaming, the dead sometimes smile and sit up and return to the world.
But in a story, which is a type of dreaming, the dead sometimes smile and sit up and return to the world.
By telling stories, you objectify your own experience. You separate it from yourself. You pin down certain truths. You make up others. You start sometimes with an incident that truly happened, and you...
By telling stories, you objectify your own experience. You separate it from yourself. You pin down certain truths. You make up others. You start sometimes with an incident that truly happened, like th...
Looking back after twenty years, I sometimes wonder if the events of that summer didn’t happen in some other dimension, a place where your life exists before you’ve lived it, and where it goes afterwa...
Each of us, I suppose needs his illusions. Life after death. A maker of planets. A woman to love, a man to hate. Something sacred. But what a waste.
Sun and waves and gentle winds, all love and lightness.
His jaw was in his throat, his upper lip and teeth were gone, his one eye was shut, his other eye was a star-shaped hole, his eyebrows were thin and arched like a woman's, his nose was undamaged, ther...
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