This story about good food begins in a quick-stop convenience market.
A breeze shook rain out of new leaves onto their hair, but in their pursuit of eternity they never noticed the chill.
The death of something living is the price of our own survival, and we pay it again and again. We have no choice. It is the one solemn promise every life on earth is born and bound to keep.
Your dreams, what you hope for and all that, it’s not separate from your life. It grows right up out of it.
It’s what you do that makes your soul.
It is true that I do not speak as well as I can think. But that is true of most people, as nearly as I can tell.
God doesn’t need to punish us. He just grants us a long enough life to punish ourselves.
Solitude is a human presumption. Every quiet step is thunder to beetle life underfoot, a tug of impalpable thread on the web pulling mate to mate and predator to prey, a beginning or an end. Every choice is a world made new for the chosen.
My father wears his faith like the bronze breastplate of God’s footsoldiers while our mother’s is more like a good cloth coat with a secondhand fit.
Humans can be fairly ridiculous animals.
I attempted briefly to consecrate myself in the public library, believing every crack in my soul could be chinked with a book.
A mother’s body remembers her babies-the folds of soft flesh, the softly furred scalp against her nose. Each child has it’s own entreaties to body and soul.
No other continent has endured such an unspeakably bizarre combination of foreign thievery and foreign goodwill.
I used to think religion was just more of the same thing. Dump responsibility on the big guy. Now I see an importance in that. It’s a relief to accept that not everything is under your control.
Does a man become a revolutionary out of the belief he’s entitled to joy rather than submission?
She kept swimming out into life because she hadn’t yet found a rock to stand on.
God, why does a mortal man have children? It is senseless to love anything this much.
Hunger of the body is altogether different from the shallow, daily hunger of the belly. Those who have known this kind of hunger cannot entirely love, ever again, those who have not.
I had decided early on that if I couldn’t dress elegant, I’d dress memorable.
Do you think its possible to live without wanting to put your name on your paintings? To belong to a group so securely you don’t need to rise above it?