Too late always comes too early. She.
What he saw then was terrible enough to make his worst imaginings of the thing in the cellar look like sweet dreams; what he saw destroyed.
The world is hard and you can’t have everything.
Some memories were all right, but others were dangerous.
It makes no difference if you’re rich or poor Or if you’re smart or dumb. A woman’s place in this old world Is under some man’s thumb, And if you’re born a woman You’re born to be hurt. You’re born to be stepped on, Lied to, Cheated on, And treated like dirt. – Sandy Posey, “Born a Woman” Lyrics by Martha Sharp.
When your lover begins to talk about “offending” you, he’s not your lover anymore.
Don’t let your good nature cloud your critical eye. The critical eye should always be cold and clear.
So fell Lord Perth,” he said, “and the countryside did shake with that thunder.
It was possible to graduate from passive to active, to take the thing that had once driven you nearly to madness as a neutral prize of no more than occasional academic interest.
At half past three, in the ditch of the night, Alice said: “Oh, Mummy, too bad! Fading roses, this garden’s over.
I would not put a thief in my mouth to steal my mind.
Shiny happy people don’t hold guns in their laps that way.
Like measles, mumps, or rubella, tragedy was contagious. Unlike those diseases, there was no vaccine.
Sleep is the overlooked hero and the poor man’s physician. Shakespeare.
Come on, big guy. Let’s go for a ride. Let’s cruise.
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a gasp.
Charity had discovered there were things you didn’t want to tell. Shame wasn’t the reason. Sometimes it was just better-kinder- to keep up a front.
The sign painter had guts, maybe. Good taste, no. Anyone with a taste for chocolate Paydays had been spending too much time in the sun. We’ve stumbled on another find, I believe, Sergeant. Inspector, I stand amazed- your deductive acumen is exceeded only by your good looks and the extraordinary length of your reproductive organ.
And what do we get for our faith? For the centuries we’ve given this church or that one our gifts of blood and treasure? The assurance that heaven is waiting for us at the end of it all, and when we get there, the punchline will be explained and we’ll say, ‘Oh yeah! Now I get it.’ That’s the big payoff. It’s dinned into our ears from our earliest days: heaven, heaven, heaven! We will see our lost children, our dear mothers will take us in their arms! That’s the carrot.
What Writing Is: Telepathy, of course.