Clyde's mother was an ample, olive-dark woman with the worn and disappointed look of someone who had spent her life doing things for others: occasionally the mulling plaintiveness of her voice suggest...
Those fellows, they're always crying over killers. Never a thought for the victims.
The way his plump hand clutched at her hip seemed somehow improper; not morally, aesthetically.
Who are they for?Friends. Not necessarily neighbor friends: indeed, the larger share is intended for persons we've met maybe once, perhaps not at all. People who've struck our fancy. Like President Ro...
Yes: but aren't love and marriage notoriously synonymous in the minds of most women? Certainly very few men get the first without promising the second: love, that is--if it's just a matter of spreadin...
You are a man of extreme passion, a hungry man not quiet sure where his appetite lies, a deeply frustrated man striving to project his individuality against a backdrop of rigid conformity. You exist i...
That's not writing that's typing.
To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the inner music that words make.
You got to want it to be good, and I don't want it.
He wants awfully to be inside staring out: anybody with their nose pressed against a glass is liable to look stupid.
We huddle in the bed, and she squeezes my hand I-love-you.
Be anything but a coward, a pretender, an emotional crook, a whore: I'd rather have cancer than a dishonest heart.
What happens to us on earth is lost in the endless shine of eternity.
all his prayers of the past had been simple concrete requests: God, give me a bicycle, a knife with seven blades, a box of oil paints. Only how, how, could you say something so indefinite, so meaningl...
You don't run out on people; you run out on yourself.
It may be that there is no place for any of us. Except we know there is somewhere; and if we found it, but lived there only a moment, we could count ourselves blessed.
It’s fruitcake weather!
Never love a wild thing... you can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree....
Always, the path unwinds through lemony sun pools and pitch vine tunnels.
Because it's indeed difficult to portray, in any meaningful depth, another being, his appearance, speech, mentality, without to some degree, and often for quite trifling cause, offending him. The trut...
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