Shallow believers prefer a shallow God.
Pain. I seem to have an affection, a kind of sweettooth for it. Bolts of lightning, little rivulets of thunder. And I the eye of the storm. Mourning the split trees, hens starving on rooftops. Figurin...
Nothing could be counted on in a world where even when you were a solution you were a problem.
Like any artist without an art form, she became dangerous.
It was a fine cry - loud and long - but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow.
In a way, her strangeness, her naiveté, her craving for the other half of her equation was the consequence of an idle imagination. Had she paints, or clay, or knew the discipline of the dance, or stri...
I told you again that you were the reason Adam ate the apple and its core. That when he left Eden, he left a rich man. Not only did he have Eve, but he had the taste of the first apple in the world in...
I know it's trash: just another story made up to scare wicked females and correct unruly children. But it's all I have. I know I need something else. Something better. Like a story that shows how braz...
I have only to break into the tightness of a strawberry, and I see summer – its dust and lowering skies.
I didn't fall in love, I rose in it.
But to find out the truth about how dreams die, one should never take the word of the dreamer.
And in all those escapes he could not help being astonished by the beauty of this land that was not his. He his in its breast, fingered its earth for food, clung to its banks to lap water and tried no...
A child. New life. Immune to evil or illness, protected from kidnap, beatings, rape, racism, insult, hurt, self-loathing, abandonment. Error-free. All goodness. Minus wrath. So they believe.
I want to remind us all that art is dangerous. I want to remind you of the history of artists who have been murdered, slaughtered, imprisoned, chopped up, refused entrance. The history of art, whether...
Their drift away from others produced a selfish privacy and they had lost the refuge and the consolation of a clan. Baptists, Presbyterians, tribe, army, family, some encircling outside thing was need...
She is a friend of my mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order.
People who die bad don't stay in the ground.
Pain. I seem to have an affection, a kind of sweettooth for it. Bolts of lightning, little rivulets of thunder. And I the eye of the storm.
I want to feel what I feel. What's mine. Even if it's not happiness, whatever that means. Because you're all you've got.
You looked at them and wondered why they were so ugly; you looked closely and could not find the source. Then you realized that it came from conviction, their conviction. It was as though some mysteri...