The sun, an hour above the horizon, is poised like a bloody egg upon a crest of thunderheads; the light has turned copper: in the eye portentous, in the nose sulphurous, smelling of lightning.
Father was teaching us that all men are just accumulations dolls stuffed with sawdust swept up from the trash heaps where all previous dolls had been thrown away the sawdust flowing from what wound in what side that not for me died not
Just when do men that have different blood in them stop hating one another?
Luster returned, wearing a stiff new straw hat with a colored band and carrying a cloth cap. The hat seemed to isolate Luster's skull, in the beholder's eye as a spotlight would, in all its individual planes and angles. So peculiarly individual was its shape that at first glance the hat appeared to be on the head of someone standing immediately behind Luster.
I believe in God, God. God, I believe in God.
Though children can accept adults as adults, adults can never accept children as anything but adults too.
When you opened the door a bell tinkled, but just once, high and clear and small in the neat obscurity above the door, as though it were gauged and tempered to make that single clear small sound so as not to wear the bell out nor to require the expenditure of too much silence in restoring it when the door opened upon the recent warm scent of baking; a little dirty child with eyes like a toy bear's and two patent-leather pigtails.
When the switch fell I could feel it upon my flesh; when it welted and ridged it was my blood that ran, and I would think with each blow of the switch: Now you are aware of me! Now I am something in your secret and selfish life, who have marked your blood with my own for ever and ever.
I am not one of those women who can stand things.
Knowing not grieving remembers a thousand savage and lonely streets.
Once a bitch always a bitch, what I say.
If you could just ravel out into time. That would be nice. It would be nice if you could just ravel out into time
When it's a matter of not-do, I reckon a man can trust himself for advice. But when it comes to a matter of doing, I reckon a fellow had better listen to all the advice he can get.
Where the shadow of the bridge fell I could see down for a long way, but not as far as the bottom. When you leave a leaf in water a long time after awhile the tissue will be gone and the delicate fibres waving slow as the motion of sleep. They don't touch one another, no matter how knotted up they once were, no matter how close they lay once to the bones.
And even a liar can be scared into telling the truth, same as honest man can be tortured into telling a lie.
I could smell the curves of the river beyond the dusk and I saw the last light supine and tranquil upon tideflats like pieces of broken mirror, then beyond them lights began in the pale clear air, trembling a little like butterflies hovering a long way off.
Like a fellow running from or toward a gun ain't got time to worry whether the word for what he is doing is courage or cowardice.
Only Southerners have taken horsewhips and pistols to editors about the treatment or maltreatment of their manuscript. This--the actual pistols--was in the old days, of course, we no longer succumb to the impulse. But it is still there, within us.
It is as though the space between us were time: an irrevocable quality. It is as though time, no longer running straight before us in a diminishing line, now runs parallel between us like a looping string, the distance being the doubling accretion of the thread an not the interval between.
A man is the sum of his misfortunes. One day you'd think misfortune would get tired but then time is your misfortune
And I reckon them that are good must suffer for it the same as them that are bad.
I said I have committed incest father I said
Making or getting money is a kind of game where there are not any rules at all.
She loved him not only in spite of but because he himself was incapable of love.
It surged up out of the water and stood for an instant upright upon that surging and heaving desolation like Christ.
A pair of jaybirds came up from nowhere, whirled up on the blast like gaudy scraps of cloth or paper and lodged in the mulberries, where they swung in raucous tilt and recover, screaming into the wind that ripped their harsh cries onward and away like scraps of paper or of cloth in turn.
Dear God, let me be damned a little longer, a little while.
I say money has no value; it's just the way you spend it.
My, my. A body does get around.
Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar...
Charles Dickens - Tom Clancy - Louisa May Alcott - Katherine Dunn - J. D. Salinger - Honore de Balzac - Erich Segal - Boris Pasternak - Anne Bronte - Aldous Huxley