If there is an occupational hazard to writing, it’s drinking.
Whatever voice spoke him was no demon but some old shed self that came yet from time to time in the name of sanity. a hand to gentle him back from the rim of his disastrous wrath.
She said that the breath of God was his breath yet though it pass from man to man through all of time.
Where man can’t live gods fare no better. You’ll see. It’s better to be alone.
As for me my only hope is for eternal nothingness and I hope it with all my heart.
He sat by a gray window in the gray light in an abandoned house in the late afternoon and read old newspapers while the boy slept. The curious news. The quaint concerns.
If people saw the world for what it truly is. Saw their lives for what they truly are. Without dreams or illusions. I don’t believe they could offer the first reason why they should not elect to die as soon as possible.
Ten thousand dreams ensepulchred within their crozzled hearts.
Like the great pendulum in its rotunda scribing through the long day movements of the universe of which you may say it knows nothing and yet know it must.
Themselves among others, everything in its place. Justified in the world.
In the night’s in their thousands to dream the dreams of a child’s imaginings, worlds rich or fearful such as might offer themselves but never the one to be.
There ain’t no law in Mexico. It’s just a pack of rogues.
Qual es lo peor: Que soy pobre o que soy americano?
Nadie sabe para quien trabaja.
Algunas cosas las olvidas, no? Olvidas lo que quieres recordar y recuerdas lo que quieres olvidar.
The skiff swung gently, drifting in the current. He undid his shirt to the waist and put one forearm to his eyes. He could hear the river talking softly beneath him, heavy old river with wrinkled face.
Ever’s a long time.
Live by yourself and you bound to talk yourself and when ye commence that folks start it up that you’re light in the head. But I reckon it’s all right to talk to a dog since most folks do even if a dog don’t understand and cain’t answer if he did.
The cap was gone and the man dropped to his elbows to smell the pipe but the odor of gas was only a rumor, faint and stale.
He’d stop and lean on the cart and the boy would go on and then stop and look back and he would raise his weeping eyes and see him standing there in the road looking back at him from some unimaginable future, glowing in that waste like a tabernacle.