She named me Daisy St. Patience and never wanted to know what name I walked in the door with.
The wild daisies and Indian paintbrush whizzing past are just the genitals of a different life form.
I stepped into the back of a cab and simply told the driver, “Follow the blue Christmas tree...
No sin, no crime, then extinction not earned.
You do the job you’re trained to do. Pull a lever. Push a button. You don’t understand any of it, and then you just die.
He can’t live with knowing the future and not being able to save anyone.
Driving east, I’m not sure what we’re running from. Evie or the police of Mr. Baxter or the Rhea sisters. Or nobody. Or the future. Fate. Growing up, getting old. Picking up the pieces. As if by running we won’t have to get on with our lives.
Buster was Rant was Buddy. Chester was Chet was Dad. Irene was Mom was Reen. How folks lay claim to their loved ones is they give you a name of their own. They figure to label you as their property.
The club is too loud to talk, so after a couple of drinks, everyone feels like the centre of attention but completely cut off from participating with anyone else. You’re the corpse in an English murder mystery.
Ignore how it feels when the only real talent you have is for hidding the truth. You have a God-given knack for commiting a terrible sin. It’s your calling. You have a natural gift for denial. A blessing.
If you lose your nerve before you hit the bottom, Tyler says, you never really succeed.
We use criticism as a fake participation.
We, each of us, can take control of the world.
If you’re male, and you’re Christian and living in America, your father is your model for God. And sometimes you find your father in your career.
If you just worked hard enough. If you just learned enough. Ran fast enough. Everything would turn out right, and your life would amount to something.
It’s one thing for my parents to behave all secular humanist and gamble with their own eternal souls; however it’s altogether not all right that they also gambled with mine: They placed their bets with such self-rightous bravado, but I’m the one who lost.
We drive west the rest of the night, away from where the sun will come up, trying to outrace it, trying not to see what it’s going to show us when we get home.
Hay gente que nace humana. Al resto nos cuesta toda la vida conseguirlo.
Where even if someone loves you enough to save your life, they still castrate you.
It sounds trite, but only because words make everything true sound trite. Because words always screw up what you’re trying to say.