And when you listened to one of his stories, you’d find yourself performing rapid calculations in your head, subtracting superlatives, figuring the square root of an absolute and then multiplying by m...
Sometimes remembering will lead to a story, which makes it forever. That’s what stories are for. Stories are for joining the past to the future. Stories are for those late hours in the night when you...
Story-truth is truer sometimes than happening-truth.
Is there sound, he wondered, without reception? Do you hear the shot that gets you? How big, in fact, was the Big Bang? Do our pathetic earthly squeals fall upon deaf ears? Is silence golden or common...
It can be argued, for instance, that war is grotesque. But in truth war is also beauty... Like a killer forest fire, like cancer under a microscope, any battle or bombing raid or artillery barrage has...
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...
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...
It was boredom with a twist, the kind of boredom that caused stomach disorders. (p 34 Spin)
It was my view then, and still is, that you don't make war without knowing why. Knowledge of course, is always imperfect, but it seemed to me that when a nation goes to war it must have reasonable con...
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...
It was very sad, he thought. The things men carried inside. The things men did or felt they had to do.
It's sad when you learn you're not much of a hero.
People who were so incredibly alive could get so incredibly dead.
It’s about love and memory. It’s about sorrow. It’s about sisters who never write back and people who never listen.
I’m not dead. But when I am, it’s like . . . I don’t know, I guess it’s like being inside a book that nobody’s reading.
Kiowa who saw it happen said it was like watching a rock fall, or a big sandbag or something-Just Boom-then down. Not like in the movies where the dead guy rolls around and does fancy spins and goes a...
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.
They were afraid of dying but they were even more afraid to show it.
They sat smoking the dead mans dope until the chopper came
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...
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