Fox 8, jeez, how cud you not smell Poop of Wolf when it is rite on your own dang paw?
For until we are ended, “never” may not be truly said. jack “malarkey” fuller And love may yet be ours. gene “rascal” kane.
We are ready, sir; are angry, are capable, our hopes are coiled up so tight as to be deadly, or holy: turn us loose, sir, let us at it, let us show what we can do.
But hopeful dear us, we forget.
Had been grandmothers, tolerant and frank, recipients of certain dark secrets, who, by the quality of their unjudging listening, granted tacit forgiveness, and thus let in the sun.
At the core of each lay suffering; our eventual end, the many losses we must experience on the way to that end.
How could we have been otherwise? Or, being that way, have done otherwise? We were that way, at that time, and had been led to that place, not by any innate evil in ourselves, but by the state of our cognition and our experience up until that moment.
He seems to have a passable knowledge of how to pretend to churn butter.
Then held a match to the carpet on the stairs and, once it started burning, raised a finger, like, Quiet, through me runs the power of recent dark experiences.
They didn’t have to feel what you felt; they just had to be supported in feeling what they felt.
Why was it, she sometimes wondered, that in dreams we can’t do the simplest things?
Someday, I’m sure, dreams will come true. But when? Why not now? Why not?
By Fate, by Destiny, said the Vermonter. By the fact that time runs in only one direction, and we are borne along by it, influenced precisely as we are, to do just the things that we do, the bass lisper said.
Show your cock,” she says, and dies again.
The Russians, when I found them a few years later, worked on me in the same way. They seemed to regard fiction not as something decorative but as a vital moral-ethical tool. They changed you when you read them, made the world seem to be telling a different, more interesting story, a story in which you might play a meaningful part, and in which you had responsibilities.
That’s all poetry is, really: something odd, coming out. Normal speech, overflowed. A failed attempt to do justice to the world. The poet proves that language is inadequate by throwing herself at the fence of language and being bound by it. Poetry is the resultant bulging of the fence.
Fiction helps us remember that everything remains to be seen.
It’s hard to get any beauty at all into a story. If and when we do, it might not be the type of beauty we’ve always dreamed of making. But we have to take whatever beauty we can get, however we can get it.
There is no world save the one we make with our minds, and the mind’s predisposition determines the type of world we see.
The writer is one who, embarking upon a task, does not know what to do.